


Never Above, Never Below, Always Beside

by QueenAng



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Espionage, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mix of Prime and IDW canon, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Other, Politics, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23761519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenAng/pseuds/QueenAng
Summary: In order for Praxus to remain neutral after Barricade joins the Decepticons, Jazz and Prowl are arranged to bond. But Praxus isn't as honest as the Autobots think, and the Autobots aren't as oblivious as Praxus planned.
Relationships: Barricade/Blackout, Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 127
Kudos: 338





	1. The News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should update on Monday every one or two weeks (depending on college).

When Jazz received a curt comm. ordering him to Optimus Prime’s office, he figured it had something to do with what happened to Ironhide’s hab-suite.

Really, that hadn’t been Jazz’s fault. Ironhide shouldn’t have gotten so spaced out on high-grade while he had his keycard in his visible possession, just asking to be taken off his servos, and Ironhide’s hab shouldn’t have been that easy to hack into – he was a commanding officer, after all, and they needed to have standards. And, yeah, maybe it was immature of Jazz to swap his solvent wash with neon green paint, but it was also partly on Ironhide for showering with his optics off in the first place. And, _yeah_ , it might’ve been over-the-top to wink at the security cam outside Ironhide’s hab when he knew it would only piss off Red Alert more, but that was just _fun_.

So when Jazz sauntered into Optimus Prime’s office, he fully expected to be given a disappointed look like he’d murdered his beloved cyber-puppy and a long speech about ‘ethics’ and ‘the proper conduct of an officer’ and nothing more. One of the benefits of being second-in-command and best friend of the guy in charge. Optimus never really had the spark to reprimand Jazz, not when he still saw Jazz as Orion Pax’s best friend, his one remaining link to _before_ that hadn’t gone to slag.

Part of that loyalty meant Jazz’s scheming was handled with discretion; nobody but he and Optimus knew what Jazz could get away with. So when he slipped into Optimus’s office and went to drop into his chair by the desk, he was a little bit surprised to see it was already occupied.

Jazz recovered quickly, clapping a servo down on the mech’s shoulder. “Magnus! Good to see you, old pal. How’s the war been treating you so far?”

Ultra Magnus – arguably Optimus’ second-most trusted bot behind Jazz and the next in the line of Autobot command – scowled down at him. “Jazz,” he said curtly, as a means of greeting. He added, “My designation is Ultra Magnus.”

Jazz turned to face Optimus, whose own expression mirrored Ultra Magnus’s grim one. “What’s got you down, Boss Bot? Mags give you another report on the awful conditions of Iacon’s rivets?”

“Properly maintained rivets are an important part of a city’s infrastructure—” Magnus began.

“Praxus has contacted us,” Optimus said.

Magnus stopped talking so fast he had to have shut his vocalizer down the moment he heard the first syllable.

Jazz looked at Optimus for a long minute, waiting for a punchline that wasn’t going to come. The presence of Magnus alone suggested whatever called him to this office was no joke. Jazz’s smile faded as he realized that meant business. Business, as in, the war. The war, as in, dead mechs. Dead mechs that Jazz knew. Dead mechs that Jazz commanded.

“Praxus,” Jazz echoed. “Praxus, the city-state of no-nonsense, don’t you dare even mention your war within fifty kilometers of us, we don’t recognize the Prime as an authority, Praxus. You sure, OP?”

“ _Optimus Prime_ ,” Magnus said pointedly.

Optimus ignored him. “Yes, Jazz. That Praxus.”

“As opposed to the vast amounts of other Praxuses,” Magnus added.

“Praxus communicating? Magnus sarcasm-ing? Well, now I know the world is ending.”

“Jazz.” Optimus didn’t look amused; the dull light of his optics hadn’t flickered in the slightest. Jazz felt his energy crumble beneath his gaze, and he sank down properly into his seat. Optimus didn’t seem disappointed as much as he did worried. Jazz thought, after seeing the hulking form of Optimus Prime arrive in place of Orion Pax, that it would take some adjusting to learn to read this mech like he did his best friend, but no – they both wore their sparks like a badge on the front of their chassis. Jazz had found it charming on Orion Pax; he found it concerning on Optimus Prime.

“All right,” Jazz said, holding up his servos. “I’m listening. All audials, my mechs.”

It was Magnus who spoke next. “I received an official transmission from Praxus approximately one solar cycle ago, signed off by their Chief of Enforcers, Commander Enigma. He has reported that one of his creations, Barricade, has joined the Decepticon movement and relocated to Kaon.”

Jazz tried not to let his helm hang visibly. That was just what the Decepticon cause needed – a city-state full of law-savvy mechs with a militaristic police force armed and ready to follow any order given to them. “So we lost Praxus.”

Magnus straightened in his chair. “No. Not yet, anyway.”

“Commander Enigma is interested in keeping Praxus neutral,” Optimus said, “and we agreed to hear his plan out of respect for his beliefs.”

Jazz thought Enigma and his beliefs – and quite possibly the whole of Praxus – could shove right off, but he simply responded with a diplomatic nod.

“Praxus follows the old optic-for-optic method of dispersing justice,” Magnus explained. “Current intelligence disclosed by Commander Enigma suggests Barricade relocated to Kaon specifically to complete a _conjunx ritus_ with a Decepticon with whom he has had an ongoing affair.” Magnus tilted his helm. “Enigma wishes it to be noted he tried to dispel Barricade of this plot.”

Optic-for-optic. Conjunx for conjunx.

“No,” Jazz said. “No way.”

“Jazz—” Magnus began.

“No!” Jazz stood up, his armor flaring. “This could not be a more obvious trap! Praxus – the city of concealing every little flaw it has, be it a crack in its road or corrupt Enforcers – _admitting_ they lost control of one of their princes? Just _offering_ to hand over one of their own to the other warring side they hate? To conjunx someone who _isn’t_ another Praxian? Mech, you’ve gotta be crazy if you believe that.”

Magnus, though remaining in his seat, was still tall enough to meet Jazz’s optics with a glower. “Our own intelligence,” he said coolly, “has confirmed Enigma’s story.”

Jazz scoffed. “I’m pretty sure Praxus, with its city full of Enforcers, can fake a bit of evidence.”

“Perhaps so,” Optimus relented, “but given their… _traditional_ views on bonding, would they truly go so far as to have their scapegoat complete the _conjunx ritus_ with a Decepticon?”

All Jazz could say was, “You gotta be joking.”

“His name is Blackout,” Optimus said, and Jazz could hear the smile in his voice. Damn Orion Pax and his romantic delusions. “Apparently, it was quite the ceremony. Very Kaonite.”

“Whatever the party was like,” Magnus said, “Praxus has conceded that it recognizes the _conjunx ritus_ as it was performed and thus cannot deny it. It seems Barricade imported just enough Praxian traditions to force the bond to be legally recognizable. Even if he hadn’t, though, the moment one of them becomes sparked, Praxus would be forced to both recognize the bond and admit that they have affiliations with one of the factions.”

“Which would give the Decepticons a claim on Praxus,” Optimus concluded, “and the Autobots a reason to lay siege to it.”

Jazz relaxed his armor as defeat settled in. He hated Praxus passionately – them and their outdated ideas about justice, among plenty of other things. “So you want to conjunx an Autobot to a Praxian, I take it.”

“It is the logical course of action,” Magnus said.

Jazz relented that, yeah, that was arguably true. “So who’s the unlucky mech?”

Optimus and Magnus exchanged a look.

“Praxus has offered up Enigma’s second creation,” said Magnus. “He is, as such, the second most powerful mech in Praxus right now. Apparently, he has quite the gifted processor, and we cannot afford to let him fall into Decepticon servos.”

“What Magnus means,” interjected Optimus, around Magnus’s mutter of “ _Ultra_ Magnus”, “is that we are expected to offer our highest commander as well.”

Jazz stared for a moment, waiting in the silence, before breaking out into a wide grin. “Aw, OP, why didn’t you just say you wanted me to be your best mech? ’Course I’ll do it!”

“Jazz,” Optimus said, seeming to shrink by the klik, “Praxus doesn’t acknowledge the dissolution of previous conjunx bonds, nor do they allow more than one. In Enigma’s optics, Megatron and I are still conjunxed.”

“Oh.” Jazz looked to Magnus and clapped a servo on his shoulder. Magnus scowled. “Good for you, my mech! It only took a couple of war crimes in Praxus’s view, but you finally got yourself a conjunx! Can’t say I ever thought it would happen, but good on you!”

Magnus brushed Jazz’s servo off with a flick. “I’m not the next in command,” Magnus drawled.

Jazz looked between Magnus and Optimus. Then between Optimus and Magnus. Then back again a couple more times. Finally, he settled on Optimus. “Look, uh, I’m not quite sure how to put this _diplomatically_ , but if we’re doing things by Praxus’s rules, then I don’t exactly fit the bill either. Aren’t they all about ‘waiting for bonding’? More power to them and all, but that ship left this port a long time ago.”

“Praxus is willing to make certain concessions when bonding to an outsider,” Magnus said.

“Previous bonds are out of the question,” Optimus added. “Enigma was explicitly clear on that.”

Jazz handled that news very well. He handled it very, very well, for about five kliks.

“Are you joking?” Jazz yelled. Optimus winced. “You’ve got to be kidding me! When was the last time any side in a war on Cybertron accepted bonding as a means for an alliance? I know damn well _I_ wasn’t around. Pit, I don’t think _Ratchet_ was around! Alliances are made with treaties, and contracts, not by—by selling off mechs to your enemy for the greater good!”

“It’s really more a trade than a sale,” Magnus said.

“Don’t you have a stick up your aft you can amuse yourself with while the big mechs talk?” Jazz snapped.

Magnus did rise from his chair then, and Jazz suddenly remembered why it was a good idea to act all ‘goody-two-shoes Autobot’ around Ultra Magnus.

“We are at war.” Magnus’s voice boomed through the small room. “All sides are forced to make concessions in such a time. Praxus has explicitly stated their goal to remain neutral in this conflict, and as Autobots, we are expected to respect that wish. They see themselves as unable to remain partial because of what Barricade did, and this is the sole solution available to mitigate that. You are the second-in-command of the Autobots; you, more than anyone else, are expected to make sacrifices, if that is how you choose to see this.”

Magnus leaned down, until Jazz could feel the hot air expelled from his vents hit his frame. His shadow darkened the area all around Jazz. “You will accept Praxus’s offer for their neutrality, because your only other option is to lead our troops into Praxus when the Decepticons lay claim to it. Should you choose the latter, I will personally ensure that every surviving Autobot is aware who made that fateful choice to send their comrades to their deaths in battle. Am I understood?”

Jazz nodded.

Magnus rose back up to his full towering height. His scowl remained in place. “Good.” He tilted his helm to Optimus. “I shall make the necessary arrangements.”

Jazz didn’t vent properly until the doors shut behind Magnus and the sound of his pede-steps vanished down the hall.

Optimus’s gaze was sorrowful. “I am sorry about these circumstances, old friend.”

“Nah, mech, it’s cool.” He pictured the scene Magnus laid out all too well: grey frames scattered around a reclaimed, half-destroyed building while the firefight raged outside. He’d seen it too many times. “Could be worse.”

* * *

“No.”

Enigma looked up from the data-pad he held in his monochrome servos. His expression never altered, but the light in his optics darkened ever-so-slightly. “I haven’t even asked anything of you yet.”

“But you are going to. And I am making myself clear to save us both time. No.”

Enigma gestured to the chair in front of his desk. “Take a seat, won’t you?” He set his data-pad down to the side, at the top of a neatly organized stack of similar ones. “I feel this conversation will flow smoother if we see optic-to-optic.”

Reluctantly, Prowl took a seat. He sat poised on the edge, his doorwings stiff at his back. “I do not plan to sell myself out as compensation for Barricade’s mistake.”

“You misunderstand my plan.” Enigma allowed the smallest of smiles onto his faceplates, as though that would ease the coming blow. “You are not selling yourself out, nor are you merely a form of repayment for your brother’s transgressions.” He paused, then said, “You are training in the Enforcer Academy, are you not?”

“I am,” Prowl said. _Not that you would know if you weren’t planning on using it_.

“And it is an Enforcer’s duty to do whatever he must to protect his citizens, correct?”

“Of course.”

“And I am sure,” Enigma said, “nay, certain, that a dedicated protegee such as yourself would never allow his record to be tarnished with, oh, the death and ruin of his entire city-state?”

The gears in Prowl’s jaw ground together. “Of course,” he said again.

“Then it follows,” Enigma continued, “that you would do whatever you must to prevent such a thing from befalling us?” When Prowl didn’t respond, he added, “Enforcers are expected to make personal sacrifices for the good of the whole unit. Praxus would be nothing without its citizens. You are an Enforcer in training, aren’t you?”

“Is that what I’m here as?” Prowl asked.

“Pardon?”

“Is that what I’m here as?” Prowl repeated, slower. “Am I here as an Enforcer, expected to sacrifice whatever I must in order to serve, or am I here as your creation, to set right what Barricade made wrong?”

“You are here as a piece,” Enigma said. “As part of a whole. One cog in the machine of Praxus. One cog, turning multiple wheels. Family, legality, duty. You are here to turn the wheels, and keep Praxus moving.” Enigma brushed a servo over the map of Praxus that covered his desk. “After all, should Praxus fall, what would you be then? What use does Cybertron have for a mere cog?”

“No use,” Prowl murmured.

“Don’t mutter,” Enigma snapped.

“No. Use,” Prowl said, dragging out each word.

Enigma nodded. “Should Praxus offline, all of its components would enter the smelter alongside it. Including you.”

“I understand. I will do my duty to Praxus.” _I will fix Barricade’s many mistakes_.

Enigma never smiled – not really. Sometimes the edges of his mouth-plates tilted upward in the faintest mimicry of a smile, but looked as lively as an expression drawn in the sand. His optics always seemed to grow darker, never lighter. “I’m glad to hear that you have accepted your role.” He waved a servo. “Besides, didn’t you always want to study in Iacon?”

That much was true, Prowl had to relent. The Academy of Science and Technology in Iacon was the premier institute for tactical training. It only made sense, given his natural predisposition for the subject, that he seek additional schooling in that area. He had always planned to return to Praxus afterward and apply his learnings there, but the time he made his idea known to Enigma was also around the same time Barricade’s affair with Blackout had begun to reach its boiling point between him and Enigma. Prowl’s own goals were brushed aside in the ensuing battle between firstborn creation and sire. The most acknowledgement Prowl’s plan had received was a forlorn, “I will not lose another creation to elsewhere on Cybertron.”

“Yes,” Prowl said. “I suppose I did.”

Enigma nodded. “So doesn’t it ease your processor to know your sparkling will receive such an education?”

“Yes,” Prowl said, behind gritted dentae, “I suppose it does.”


	2. The Bonding

Praxians had a lot of stuffy ideas about how bonding ceremonies should go, and Optimus – ever so accommodating (the fragger) – had agreed to all of them without a moment of hesitation. Jazz hadn’t even been consulted.

Jazz whined and complained as much as he could. As in, he complained right up until Ultra Magnus made his grand reappearance at the Iacon base, and then he quieted his protests to pathetic off-hand comments when he was alone with Optimus. He hated how sad Optimus managed to look at Jazz’s displeasure, but he hated this situation _more_.

Reviewing the plans was depressing. Jazz already had plans for his bonding. No, he wasn’t the type to sit around daydreaming about the day he met the right mech and settled down for good, but he did know that if he ever met a mech who made him interested in doing such a crazy thing, he would be going out with a _bang_. Lots of music from all around Cybertron, way too loud for any bot’s audials. A crowd big enough to dwarf any show he’d ever played. Any bot he’d ever known would be invited. Orion – or Optimus – would be his best mech not because he himself was some important figure, but because he was important to Jazz. Magnus would be on the other side of Cybertron. There would be no Praxians. At all.

Ultra Magnus selected Skyfire to brief Jazz on all the things he needed to know about Praxus. The massive biologist had a keen interest in flight-frames and the like. Most of his research had been on Vosnian traditions, but apparently Praxus hadn’t strayed far from their flighted ancestors. Vos, it turns out, was just as stuffy as Praxus.

Jazz made an internal note of that as well. _Note to self: No Vosnians at Jazz’s Super Epic Definitely Illegal (Now For More Reasons!) Absolutely Historic Bonding Party_.

Some of the things Skyfire explained, Jazz already knew: Praxians didn’t bond to outsiders. Praxians didn’t interface before bonding. Praxians were expected to maintain neutrality on controversies. Praxians had to do mega-cycles worth of more schooling than any other city-state. Praxians did boring this and boring that and _liked_ it. Jazz thought his processor was going to fry just listening to Skyfire list it all off.

Skyfire went into a long, absolutely one-sided discussion on how Praxus developed a philosophy encouraging neutrality whereas there has never been a Vosnian without a strong opinion on anything. Jazz started to sort Praxus’s rules in his head. Category 1: Rules Against Fun. That was it; there were no more categories.

“—and then there’s the wings,” Skyfire said.

Jazz perked up at that. Finally, something interesting! There wasn’t a mech with pumping energon in his lines who wouldn’t perk up at the mention of wings, flight-functional or not. “What about them?”

“Be very sure not to touch them,” Skyfire said, because that was all he did: suck the fun out of everything.

“But they’re _wings_ ,” Jazz said. They were like big red and white targets begging to be touched.

“They’re sensor panels,” Skyfire said, “and they are extremely sensitive. Touching them is considered to be very… intimate. The only ones permitted to touch a Praxian’s doorwings are his family and his mate.”

Which at least meant Jazz would get to touch the doorwings, eventually. If his conjunx-to-be would even get close to him. Considering their well-known views on coupling with outsiders, he doubted he’d ever get a chance to get close enough to worry about the doorwings becoming a temptation. He hoped that Barricade’s willingness to elope with a non-Praxian meant his own conjunx-to-be wouldn’t be absolutely repulsed by him.

“It’s important that you watch your step during the ceremony,” Skyfire continued. “Even accidentally touching a Praxian’s doorwings is looked down upon. It’s best to keep your distance to stay on the safe side; they’re quite fond of their personal space anyhow.”

Jazz groaned. “All right, all right, I get it.”

Skyfire beamed. “Great! The chevron is the same way.”

* * *

Prowl’s plating glistened. Cybertron’s setting sun cast a warm evening glow through the open window of his makeshift room. If he looked far enough into the distance, he could see the rising spires of the Academy of Science and Technology – stark black lines against the darkening horizon. He felt an ache in his spark at the sight, which he quickly snuffed. There was no use wishing for things to be different; _this_ was how things were, and he would live with that.

The sound of the doors spreading open snapped through the quiet stillness of the room. Enigma appeared, his plating gleaming just as radiantly as his creation’s. They, as well as their entire guard and the accompanying dignitaries, looked impeccable. Prowl thought it ridiculous and redundant.

“Outsiders,” his sire had scoffed once. “They could see a Praxian covered in dirt and scuffs and welds and they would still hunt them like a prized mech-animal.”

“Hunt?” Prowl had queried.

A servo had hit his back. Barricade leaned in. “Pursue,” he said, “as in, to interface.”

Enigma scowled. “Barricade, language.”

Barricade returned to his straight posture at Prowl’s side, rolling his shoulders in a lazy stretch. “Of course, sire. My apologies.”

Now they were surrounded by outsiders who surely couldn’t give less of a damn if they were Praxian or not, if they were pretty or not, because that was so far from the point of this bonding it couldn’t be seen with the telescope at Cybertron’s Galactic Studies Institute. Prowl’s attractiveness had nothing to do with it; Prowl’s heritage had nothing to do with it; Prowl _himself_ had nothing to do with it.

This was all about duty.

Enigma tapped his shoulder hard. “Straighten your posture,” he said. “Spread your doorwings out more. You were given a lovely frame, now use it. Make a good impression on these Autobots for Praxus.”

“For Praxus,” Prowl echoed, monotone.

Enigma smiled, the slightest crinkle in his mouth-plates showing. “That’s the spirit.”

* * *

Jazz tried to spend the first part of the ceremony in the shadows, to watch the Praxians come in without looking like a creep. Unfortunately, Ratchet had already claimed his desired corner, and he wasn’t going to budge. “Not gonna happen, kid,” Ratchet said, arms crossed in front of his chassis. “Go stand in the light like a real mech. The last thing we need is to scare off the Praxians by letting them know you’re an above-the-law spec ops agent who makes the bad guys ‘disappear’.”

A fight with Ratchet was a lost battle before it even started, so Jazz took his leave and went to lurk in Optimus’s shadow instead. Ultra Magnus stood nearby, never more than a few steps away from his leader, and Jazz could feel his penetrating gaze on him at every klik, no matter where he moved.

Jazz didn’t see himself as a nervous mech. He regularly waltzed into Decepticon compounds. He didn’t have a tactician looking over his shoulder to help him. He made himself into a musician thanks to his own hard work when the Senate said he was supposed to be a cultural investigator. He had played to crowds of thousands of mechs knowing he wasn’t designed for it. And never had his spark spun so fast in his chassis.

 _Anger_ , he told himself. It was anger, or frustration, or impatience. Anger at Barricade, frustration with this situation, impatient with this whole charade. Jazz could charm any mech he laid optics on, so it definitely had nothing to do with his conjunx-to-be.

The party was Praxian, so obviously it was no fun. Jazz stuck by Optimus’s side, taking cues from him on when to bow and to whom, when to speak and what they wanted to hear him say. Short, clipped names and monochrome plating blended together. It was hard to tell what sort of impression he made. The Praxians all seemed to maintain a permanent expression that bordered on a scowl.

“I don’t think they like me,” Jazz muttered to Skyfire, watching as Optimus entertained a duo of dignitaries who nodded along at whatever he was saying.

Skyfire tilted his helm. “I doubt it is dislike,” he said. “Praxians value neutrality. They try to remain balanced on situations.”

“They try not to show emotions,” Jazz corrected.

Skyfire shrugged sheepishly. “It’s nothing wrong with you, Jazz. You’re doing great.”

“Yeah,” Jazz said, less confident than he had ever felt in his functioning. “Sure.”

It really didn’t feel like it. None of this felt _great_ , but a lot felt _wrong_ with Jazz.

Jazz, bored out of his processor, had zoned out easily at Skyfire’s side, knowing the big shuttle would direct him when he needed to do something. Praxian music played through the old Council Hall, its notes seeming to melt into the golden metal walls caging them in. Jazz began to scheme out a remix – higher pitches of the same notes, shorter and less strung out. Something that didn’t sound quite so much like a funeral march.

Skyfire did nudge him eventually. Unfortunately, Skyfire was a huge mech, and his ‘nudge’ nearly sent Jazz sprawling on the floor. “It’s him,” Skyfire hissed. “He’ll be the one missing his Enforcer decals.”

As Jazz scrambled up to get a better look across the room, Ironhide laughed. “Is the mech that much of a knock-out?” He turned around as well.

“Damn,” Ironhide said, optical ridges rising. “If you still wanna switch, I’m game.”

A small gathering of Praxian Enforcers had entered the room. Tallest among them was a primarily white mech with thick armor and numerous golden decals who Jazz assumed was Commander Enigma. Beside him stood a much smaller mech, black and white just like all the others, but he practically gleamed under the lights, with his reflective white and matte black fresh paintjob. Proud, slender doorwings rose from behind his shoulders. A voluptuous bumper extended from his chassis. A bright, brilliantly red chevron jutted from his helm. He stood tall with his servos clasped behind his back, leaving an unobstructed view from his helm to his pedes. He had a narrower waistline than his counterparts. His—

Ironhide elbowed him. “Close your intake before every bot sees you drooling.”

Jazz composed himself as Enigma and his delegation neared. Enigma had a helm’s worth of height on Jazz, but the stunning Praxian mech at his side was just a tad bit shorter than Jazz. Nevertheless, he had a piercing gaze that made Jazz feel a bit shorter.

“You must be Optimus Prime’s second-in-command.” Enigma spoke, and he a deep, smooth voice.

Jazz put on his best smile. “That’s me. Designation’s Jazz.” He started to stick out a servo to shake, but Skyfire hit his arm back down. Right – pretty things, don’t touch.

Jazz managed not to blush thanks to years of improvisation. The shorter Praxian had the faintest smile on his faceplates. There was a glimmer of something close to mischief in his optics, some sort of challenge.

“I am Commander Enigma, Chief of the Praxian Enforcers.” He gestured to the short mech. “This is my second creation, Prowl.”

“Pleasure,” Prowl said, and if his looks didn’t already have Jazz in a pile of goo, his voice would. He didn’t have the same deep baritone as Enigma, his being somewhat lighter, calmer, cooler. His Praxian accent wasn’t as strong as Enigma’s either, but it was there, flavoring the way he pronounced each glyph. Jazz didn’t need to hear this mech sing to know he could listen to that voice for the rest of his functioning.

Enigma waved to either side of them and began introducing their guards, the most elite Enforcers in Praxus, arguably on the whole of Cybertron. Skyfire nodded diligently with each introduction, bowing his helm to the right mechs. Jazz, for the first time in a long, long time, felt himself unbalanced as his attention split between copying Skyfire and watching the Praxian mech.

“Might be a bit bold of me,” Ironhide said, “but would your mechs like to meet our own Elite Guard?”

Enigma’s helm tilted in interest. “Oh? I was unaware you had such ranks. Of course, of course.” He gestured his mechs forward to fall into step behind Ironhide. A servo halted the shorter mech before he could move. They exchanged a look, and Jazz felt like a whole conversation happened in that klik they glared at one another. Enigma followed his Enforcers, and the shorter mech remained in place in front of Jazz.

“I think I’ll take my leave as well,” Skyfire said, stepping back. “I would love to know what Enigma thinks of our Elite Guard.”

And then they were alone. In a hall full of mechs, but alone as they could get.

“I’m Jazz,” he said, lamely.

That small, secret smile didn’t leave the mech’s faceplates. “Prowl.”

“Well, Prowl,” Jazz said, “have you seen the view of Iacon from here? I don’t mean to brag, but the Council Hall is the best look you can get in all Cybertron.”

“I haven’t had the chance,” Prowl said. His voice was slow, as though his every word was methodical.

Jazz stepped to the side and motioned to the wall, where towering floor-to-ceiling windows sliced through the metal. Each center-most one on both sides had an oval balcony extending outward, offering an unobstructed view of almost the whole of Iacon. Jazz had truly meant it when he said it had the best view on Cybertron.

Prowl stepped forward, and he moved as smoothly as he talked. Jazz put a careful distance between them lest they accidentally bump shoulders and end up at war with each other. Prowl easily fell into step beside him, matching each one he took. Jazz had to find it a little funny – they were nothing alike, from two extremely opposing places, yet they fell into sync so easily.

The doors to both the balconies were flung open, but the platform itself was empty; Jazz was hardly the only mech who wanted a chance to ogle some wings.

Prowl’s appearance seemed to change under the light of Cybertron’s moon. His black painting faded whereas the white glistened, like a mimicry of the star-splattered sky above them. Jazz couldn’t help but take in the sight; he’d always loved pretty things, and Prowl was far, far from hard on the optics. Primus must be laughing his aft off right now, because Jazz knew that even if he hadn’t met Prowl with the intention of Conjunxing him, he would have had to ask the mech for a dance, or a kiss, or a talk, or anything else he could get.

Prowl stopped one step from the railing, his servos still behind his back. As Jazz moved up to stand beside him, he thought he saw Prowl’s grip tense. A flutter of amusement rose in his spark. “Scared of heights?” he asked as he leaned back on the railing.

The mech’s gaze dropped to the platform, and then fixed on Jazz’s face. “Not at all,” he said. “This platform appears to be fairly new, and the railings show no sign of rust or other integrity failure. Your willingness to put all your weight on it indicates you are well aware of its capabilities.”

“So it’s not the height then,” Jazz surmised.

Prowl gave him a deadpan look. “We live on Cybertron, where every building is a skyscraper. A fear of heights would be illogical.”

“Feelings ain’t got nothing to do with logic,” Jazz said.

Jazz saw Prowl’s optical ridge shift up ever-so-slightly, which, on a Praxian, was practically a blatant expression of disbelief. “I am the second creation of the Chief of Praxus,” Prowl said. “Our Enforcer building is the tallest in the city-state, and we live at the top. My hesitation has nothing to do with heights.”

“But you admit you’re hesitating.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Prowl said, almost to himself.

“Prime says it’s my best quality.”

“And your worst?”

“All the others.”

There! A _real_ smile. It was fleeting, so brief that Jazz wondered if his lovestruck processor had imagined it. But judging from the way Prowl ducked his head to the side and began studying the collection of windows looking into the Council Hall, it really did happen.

Jazz switched from leaning his back on the railing to leaning one arm on it to better study Prowl. He made a pretty picture from the side too. “So what is it? Don’t tell me you don’t like the view, mech! We can see everything from up here! Inter-city highway from Ultihex, and over there is the one from Polyhex, and there’s our imitation Crystal Gardens – which we did our best on, thank you, that’s what counts. And you can even see the Academy from here!”

“I’m certain the view is lovely.” Prowl faced Jazz again, and the energon rising in his cheeks was all too visible.

“Then what is it?”

Prowl stayed silent for a moment, then said, a bit more quietly, “My processor is built for tactical analysis. I can follow eight hundred moving objects at a time. I do not, however, have the ability to shut off my processor, and attempting to analyze greater than eight hundred objects sends me into a crash.”

Jazz’s optics widened, and he felt his spark sink with guilt. “And I just brought you onto a balcony looking over thousands of moving things.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Prowl said.

“Why didn’t you say something, mech?”

“You seemed eager. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Yeah, well.” Jazz waved a servo nonchalantly, standing up from the railing. “Luckily for you, my mech, this isn’t even the greatest view in Iacon.”

“Oh?”

Jazz held out a servo. “May I?”

Prowl hesitated.

“Come on,” Jazz said, “don’t ya trust me?”

“You think me a madmech.”

“Ha, ha. Aren’t you curious what I’ve got to show you?” Jazz smiled devilishly. “You think you could live never knowing the answer? Just stay curious, for the rest of your functioning, wondering what could have been…”

“All right.” Prowl slipped his servo into Jazz’s. “You’ve made your point.” He wore a scowl, but that mischievous light in his optics that Jazz pegged the moment he saw him finally shone, unhindered.

They were able to slip through the edges of the crowd quite easily. Enigma and Optimus Prime stood near the center of the room, engaged in what appeared to be a deep discussion, and most of the optics had latched onto them. Ironhide noticed; he gave Jazz a smirk and Jazz responded in turn with a rude gesture. Ratchet was still sulking in what should have been Jazz’s corner, and he rolled his optics at the sight of Jazz sneaking from the party with his strange new mech in tow.

Jazz learned all the secret passageways of the Council Building the moment the Autobots had moved in. Well, he called them ‘secret passageways’; Optimus insisted they were merely smaller routes meant for the servant-class bots to maneuver through unseen. No fun, that mech.

About a dozen flights of stairs later, Jazz kicked open a hatch and pulled himself up through the ceiling. He looked back down to see Prowl staring at him with wide optics, and he had to save an image capture of that before he did anything else. He held out a servo for Prowl, and after a moment’s hesitation, the Praxian took it, and Jazz hauled him up through the hatch. Jazz kicked the hatch shut as soon as Prowl’s pedes were clear of it.

“Now,” Jazz said, “I don’t know much about astronomy or any of that, but I know _that_ is a view you can’t beat.”

The Council Building of Iacon was one of the tallest skyscrapers on Cybertron. Iacon itself was on higher ground than the city-states surrounding it. Its height, and its stunningly clear skies, were the reason the Galactic Studies Institute had been built there, eventually becoming the hub that would spawn the Academy of Science and Technology. The spires of those buildings were the only ones reaching higher than this.

Prowl’s optics remained wide, fixed on the stars glistening above, well-lit by Cybertron’s full moon.

“You guys don’t have skies in Praxus either?” Jazz teased.

“We don’t have access to the roofs of buildings,” Prowl explained. His voice was quiet, as though reluctant to disturb the air around them. “I’d only ever seen this view in pieces from the ground, obstructed by the skyscrapers bordering it.”

Jazz leaned in closer. “What’d I tell ya? How’s that for a view?” He gestured to the sky. “It’s more than eight hundred things, sure, but ain’t nothing moving around.”

“The sky is constantly in motion,” Prowl responded. “Cybertron orbits its sun, and the sun has its own orbit, and our system orbits around our galaxy, and—”

Jazz couldn’t give less of a damn about astrophysics, but Prowl’s voice was soft and soothing, like a velvet blanket to complete their sprawl beneath the open sky. Jazz maintained his initial opinion – he could listen to this mech talk about anything. He knew a good voice when he heard one, and he decided in that moment that he was going to have to do whatever it took to hear this mech sing one day. He didn’t care if it was a hum in the shower or a lullaby at night or a full-on concert; he’d listen to this voice for the rest of his functioning.

“Jazz?” Prowl’s query cut through his reverie. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to bore you.”

Jazz straightened his posture, zoning back into reality. “You ain’t boring me, mech. I was just thinking.”

Prowl nodded sagely. “New activities are always difficult the first few times.”

Jazz put a servo on his chassis. “I don’t know much about Praxus, mech, but murder’s illegal up here in Iacon.”

Prowl’s gaze returned to the sky. The bright white light of the full moon made his blue optics lighten to nearly the same color as his plating. “I do apologize,” he said, “about this whole situation. I understand you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter either. Enigma would have insisted upon the highest-ranking mech possible.”

Jazz waved that away. “I’ll survive. You ain’t exactly hard on the optics, you know.”

It was so easy to make this mech blush, and it showed so clearly with his white plating. “It’s my fault, in part,” he said, a bit more quietly. “This never would have happened if Barricade hadn’t run off with Blackout. Logically, I knew there would be consequences for his actions, but I never expected them to be this drastic. A part of me hoped Enigma would join the Autobots out of spite.”

Jazz shrugged. “What’s done is done, right? You can’t undo what Barricade did, or what Enigma asked. We just gotta go forward from here. Improvise.”

“You sound like you have much familiarity with that word.”

Jazz smiled, all dentae. “You got no idea.”


	3. The Ceremony

“Tell me,” Prowl had said, and Jazz felt like the world suddenly flipped upside down on him.

“What?” was the brilliant response he managed.

Prowl tilted his helm. “Tell me what you’re like. You’re right, I have no idea who you are or what you do, but I would like to find out.”

Jazz didn’t really talk to mechs about what he did, and mechs knew better than to ask. He was second-in-command of the Autobot army, but he was also spec ops, and he took the sort of missions that no sane mech would take. Not without some real fragged-up nightmares afterward. Optimus looked the other way when Jazz went on one of his missions and came back with the right intel, covered in other mechs’ energon. Ratchet tiptoed around him as he put him back together. He never failed, but it wasn’t something he could be proud of either.

So he told Prowl about leading the army alongside Optimus. The Prime and his kindness would look better to a Praxian than methods of subterfuge and assassination. Jazz mainly served as a diplomat at Optimus’ side, using the knowledge he had gained while working as a cultural investigator to aid their cause. And Jazz hated it. Hated how slow diplomacy was, how many worthless words mechs said and didn’t mean, how little actually got done at the end of the day. He wasn’t proud of what he did, but he did like it better than what Optimus did.

Prowl listened aptly as Jazz told him about his place as Optimus Prime’s right servo. If the mech noticed the glaring inconsistencies, he didn’t say anything. Jazz didn’t think he needed to. With his steady gaze, Jazz felt like the mech could see all the energon splattered on his frame he’d washed off over the cycles. Praxians valued the truth, but they valued the law more, and Jazz didn’t imagine it would go over well if he said, “ _Hey, pretty mech, my job is to sabotage and kill the bad guys when I’m not looking handsome at Optimus’s side_.”

Jazz felt his spark sink at the thought. His energy faded. This was just what he needed in his mind on his bonding day – images of grey frames and bright energon.

“My job really ain’t that interesting,” Jazz said, and gave him a dazzling smile, “but my personality makes up for it.”

“Oh, of course,” Prowl drawled, and Jazz’s grin only got wider when he realized the mech was playing along.

Jazz leaned back on his haunches, kicking his pedes out in front of him. “So what about you? What have you made of yourself, Mister I-Can-Track-800-Moving-Objects?”

Prowl’s expression was wry, but it faded when Jazz asked the question. Everything about this mech seemed determine to keep Jazz on his pedes. Jazz couldn’t touch him, couldn’t swing an arm around his shoulders or lean in close. He couldn’t dance with him and offer to show him a good time. He apparently didn’t like being asked about himself, unlike every single other mech on this planet Jazz had flirted with.

But Jazz liked a challenge. The harder, the better.

“I am not actually an Enforcer yet,” Prowl said, as though admitting a horrible wrongdoing.

Jazz glanced to his shoulders, where the fresh paint suggested the removal of decals. Skyfire had _said_ decals had been removed, and Skyfire had gotten everything else right.

Prowl followed his gaze. “I had marks denoting me first as an Enforcer in training, and second as the Chief of Enforcer’s creation.”

Jazz knew Praxus had a long time dedicated to schooling, and while he wasn’t exactly old, Prowl didn’t seem too far off from him in age. Or so he thought. Maybe that was wrong too. Probably, given how his night was going. “Training in what?”

“Tactics, specifically,” Prowl said.

Jazz nodded. “Makes sense, with that processor of yours.”

Prowl looked down at the roof beneath them, his servos clasped in his lap. He had a strange expression, one Jazz couldn’t quite decipher yet. “It is a bit ironic, I must admit,” Prowl said. “I always wanted to come to Iacon.” He nodded into the distance, indicating the towering spires of the Academy. “I dreamed of studying tactics beyond what Praxus had to offer, to learn elsewhere and bring new information back to aid my city.”

“Things sure do have a funny way of working out,” Jazz admitted. “So when are you going to sign up for classes?”

Prowl looked at him as though Jazz had just suggested they take a leap off the edge. “Pardon?”

Jazz reset his vocalizer. Had he been spitting static? This mech had him all messed up. “I mean, after the bonding and all, after we get settled, are you still going to sign up for classes at the Academy? Or are you going to…” Slag, what else did Praxians like? “…to join the Enforcers in Iacon? Or study law?”

Prowl shook his helm. “I’m afraid none of that is possible, given my current position.”

“Oh.” Jazz’s processor spun. “So you have to complete your training in Praxus before you start to study here?”

Prowl gave him a weary look. “No, Jazz. I am no longer eligible to complete any sort of training. My place is beside you now, wherever you wish to have me.”

Jazz resisted the urge to put his helm in his servos. “Is this another one of those Praxian traditions?”

“Of course.”

Jazz looked at him. “So, what, you can’t do anything unless _I_ say it’s okay? Isn’t Praxus all about neutrality and all that? Shouldn’t _we_ be on neutral – on, like, equal ground, in this relationship?”

“The Rites, when taken for love, put the partners on even standing,” Prowl explained, like it was the most ordinary thing. “The Rites, when taken for duty, are an exchange, a trade, and as such, each piece has a preassigned value. Given that my creator asked your faction for the bond, and you are already an accomplished… Enforcer, of sorts, you have higher standing than I do.”

Jazz wanted to say, “ _That’s the dumbest slag I’ve ever heard, and I’m actually kinda glad you’re out of that place, because that’s really, really messed up and wrong on so many levels_.” What he actually said was, “Oh. I get it.”

Prowl’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “I understand the differences in our cultures may result in some shocking revelations. Perhaps we should have a more in-depth discussion at some point soon, to work out any possible miscommunications before they occur. I would hate for us to end up in bad standing with one another due to a mere misunderstanding.”

“I got this friend, Skyfire,” Jazz said. “He’s a good mech. Knows a lot about Vosnian and Praxian culture.” Jazz let out a little laugh. “He, ah, tried to teach me about it before the bonding, but I guess I didn’t pay that much attention.”

“Perhaps our discussion can be a bit more riveting,” Prowl said.

Jazz grinned. “Oh, yeah. I listen way better when I got something pretty to look at.” He blinked half of his visor off in the imitation of a wink.

Prowl’s face remained straight as he said, “Normally, distractions cause a _decrease_ in retained material.” But Jazz could hear the smile in his voice, even if he didn’t show it on his faceplates. This mech’s voice… He’d sit for however long Prowl would keep talking, even if it was about stuffy Praxus and their outdated traditions.

— _Jazz_.— Ironhide’s voice rasped through his comm. link. — _You got five kliks to get your aft down here. With the Praxian’s sweet aft_.—

Jazz shut off his comm. link.

Prowl noticed. “I take it that means we should take our leave,” he said.

Jazz was loath to let this moment go. For the first time, he felt like he was making some ground with the Praxian. He wanted to stay under the stars, alone, away from the rest of Prowl’s group and Optimus with his sickeningly sweet smiles and Ultra Magnus’s glowers. Just him, Prowl, and the stars. No politics, no war, no factions. He wanted to ask about Prowl’s creators, and what happened to Barricade, and Prowl’s schooling.

Prowl started to stand up, but Jazz reached out and grabbed his servo. Prowl jumped in his plating, and Jazz realized this was the first time he had touched the Praxian without a purpose – not guiding him, not helping up, just touching him. His plating was cool to the touch.

“I think Optimus might be rubbing off on me,” Jazz said, “because I’m having some serious romantic delusions right now.”

“Care to elaborate?” Prowl said, as he settled back down.

Jazz shrugged. “Well, I was just thinking – pretty unromantic to have your first kiss as a couple _at_ your bonding ceremony, right? It ought to be some place special. Some place just as pretty as the mech you’re kissing.” Jazz gestured up to the sky. “Like right here. With you.”

Prowl couldn’t hide the way his optical ridges shot up. “You want to kiss me?”

“I want to do a lot of things, but I think most of that’s supposed to happen later.”

Prowl scoffed, bemused. “You are,” he said, “incorrigible.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I want to kiss you too.”

Jazz couldn’t help but to grin. “You know, it’s mean to joke around with a mech’s feelings, saying things you don’t really mean.”

“Do I seem the sort to joke?” Prowl asked. The glint in his optics suggested he was playing along with Jazz, but there was a sort of bared truth in the way he said it.

Jazz reached out and tilted his chin up. Jazz had had plenty of first kisses in his functioning, but if things worked out the way Enigma and Optimus – the way _Magnus_ – planned, this would be his last first kiss. He always figured he would never know when he’d experience that, always imagined taking relationships wherever they led without a goal in mind. If they stayed together, so be it; if not, whatever. He could honestly say he never pictured bonding in his future. That was another new thing.

Prowl’s lips were soft. He pressed timidly into the kiss, a faint brush against Jazz’s lips. Jazz slipped his servo to the side of Prowl’s helm, fingers teasing the edge of the circle of his audial. He pulled Prowl in closer, into a _real_ kiss. Prowl’s lips parted for him. He felt the soft exhale of warm air from Prowl’s vents like a sigh against his plating.

In that moment, Jazz found it hard to imagine any of this being wrong. The anger in the pit of his fuel tank settled. He was kissing a beautiful mech, who moved so gently against him, under a full Cybertronian moon. No politics, no war. Just them. The world vanished as Jazz offlined his optics, giving himself over to the feeling of Prowl’s lips against his. Nothing else existed in that moment except Prowl, the warmth of his frame beside Jazz’s, the soft feeling of his vents against Jazz’s plating.

Jazz didn’t believe in true love. Never had. But it was really, really hard to dismiss that idea when Prowl seemed to fit so perfectly against him.

They could probably sing a beautiful duet together.

“You gotta be kidding me— _Jazz_!”

Jazz jumped, leaning back from Prowl to find where the voice had come from. A scowling Ironhide stood halfway out of the hatch, his gaze burning. For a moment, Jazz wasn’t sure what was going on. Nobody had been able to get the drop on him in centuries. That was part of the reason Jazz was still online – he always kept watching, kept waiting for an attack to come.

And then _Ironhide_ snuck up on him.

The red mech hadn’t come alone either. Jazz could see a Praxian mech standing in the hallway beneath him, thick arms crossed in front of his chassis and an even more impressive scowl on his faceplates. The decals decorating his shoulders were very elaborate.

“Hello, Gunner,” Prowl said meekly.

The Praxian’s scowl deepened somehow.

Ironhide practically dragged Jazz through the hatch and dropped him onto the floor below. Prowl, he was much more gentle with, offering a servo for Prowl to hold to guide him down. He kept an amusing amount of distance between their frames. Jazz figured Skyfire had had his talk with most of High Command about the Praxian’s ideas about personal space and accidental touching.

The Praxian Enforcer straightened and clasped his servos behind his back, fixing his gaze on Prowl. “If you’re done whoring yourself out to these outsiders, you _do_ have a bonding ceremony to attend.”

“I’m not sure if you quite understand why we’re here,” Prowl said. “Whoring myself out to these outsiders is the _point_.”

Ironhide grabbed Jazz and dragged him down the hall before Jazz could see what happened next. He squirmed in Ironhide’s grip until he could cast a glance behind them, where he observed Prowl crossing his arms as Gunner stepped into his personal space, optics fiery. Prowl seemed unconcerned; Gunner looked ready to blow a gasket.

They turned a corner, and Ironhide fixed Jazz in his grasp so they walked alongside one another, Jazz’s entire upper arm clasped in one of Ironhide’s massive servos. “You’re an idiot,” Ironhide hissed. “Absolute dumb-aft.”

“For kissing my conjunx?” Jazz said. “You need to cool off, mech.”

Ironhide stopped, glancing behind them before glowering down at Jazz. “Praxians aren’t allowed to be alone with their future conjunxes until they’re bonded. Pit, kid, they see touching servos as intimate! Now the little Praxian’s guard saw you… _together_. Didn’t Prime send Skyfire to discuss all this with you?”

“Maybe…” said Jazz.

Skyfire met them when they re-entered the hall. He beamed when he saw Jazz. “Oh, good, you’re in one piece! I became a bit worried when Prowl’s guard began asking questions.”

“Guard?” Jazz yanked his arm free from Ironhide’s grasp. “Why in the Pit does he need a guard? He’s an Enforcer in training.”

“He’s the creation of the Chief of Enforcers,” Ironhide said. “He’s the Praxians’ version of a prince.”

Skyfire elaborated, “His guard is meant to protect him from any possible harm, supervise his studies when his creator is kept busy with the city-state, and ensure he follows all Praxian customs.”

“Like not making out with outsiders, alone, on a rooftop,” Ironhide added helpfully.

“I kissed him,” Jazz corrected. “ _Once_.”

Ironhide shoved him forward. “Just go stand where you’re supposed to,” he said. “And no more kissing until the Prime directly tells you to!”

Skyfire directed Jazz to the platform where he was supposed to stand. Prowl emerged from the darkness of the hallway a few moments after he got settled and optics began to rise to view him. He watched the shadows, observed as Prowl brusquely dismissed Gunner and exchanged a few curt words with Enigma. The commander scowled down at his creation. Prowl glowered right back up at him, not giving a centimeter even as Enigma pointed an accusing finger at his chassis.

Swelling music began to sweep through the grand hall. Mechs returned to their reserved places, all deliberately set out in accordance with Praxian tradition. The Praxian entourage stood on either side if the platform, alongside the rest of High Command. Ultra Magnus’s piercing gaze remained locked on Jazz, sending a tingling down his back-struts.

He almost let out a vent of relief when Prowl stepped up opposite to him. He kept his servos locked behind his back, as did Jazz. It had to be a little funny to Jazz – he’d just kissed him, alone, and now they were back in front of a crowd of mechs unallowed to so much as touch. Prowl seemed to think the same thing, because a small, secret smile crossed his faceplates. Jazz resisted the urge to grin back, given the way Enigma was glowering at him from behind Prowl’s back.

Optimus Prime stood at their sides. While Praxus didn’t recognize the Prime as a religious or military title, they did acknowledge him as a legal advisor, of sorts. A representation of the law as handed down by Primus. Enigma caved without much fight to Optimus’s offer to proceed over the ceremony. They didn’t have a figure more suited for the occasion other than Enigma, and as Prowl’s creator, he had a conflict of interest.

There were no vows to make; all promises had been hammered out in the contract that got them here. According to Skyfire, that was about how all bonds were made in Praxus: like business transactions. They had little time for things like religion, or romance. Optimus’s words were the bare bones of what Jazz recognized as a bonding ceremony. Jazz schooled his expression into one of neutrality even Praxus would have to appreciate.

The ceremony culminated like any typical contractual deal would – with a signing of a data-pad. _So_ romantic. Jazz and Prowl didn’t even have to move a servo. Seeing as they were more the products of this transaction, it was representatives of the two factions who signed them over. Since Optimus remained occupied with his script, Ultra Magnus took up the duty of Autobot representative, opposite Enigma for Prowl. Had Jazz had any remaining family, they would have stood in.

Optimus took the completed data-pad into his servos and nodded in turn to Enigma and Ultra Magnus. Battle-mask or not, Jazz could tell he was smiling.

“Congratulations,” he said, too quietly for Enigma to hear and protest.


	4. The Recessional

Jazz couldn’t wait until this whole ceremony was over.

Each one of the Praxian delegates took their turn introducing themselves to Jazz. Prowl stayed silent at his side, Gunner a few steps behind him lest he say anything they considered uncouth. Ultra Magnus and Enigma had vanished back into the crowd moments after the ceremony concluded. Optimus journeyed around the room, leaving no group unengaged. Normally Jazz would do the same, or accompany his side, but now he couldn’t help but feel abandoned, thrown to the Praxian guards.

Jazz wished the delegates would blur together like the Praxian guards had. They talked like politicians; all flowery but meaningless phrases. Their static expressions began to grate on his nerves. This time, he didn’t even have Skyfire at his shoulder to guide him through the interactions. He’d been less stressed wandering without back-up through Shockwave’s lab.

Between delegates, Prowl murmured under his vents, “And here I was, thinking you were as impeccably suave as your reputation suggested.”

He must have timed it perfectly on purpose, because the next delegate stepped into audial range before Jazz could retort.

The moment Optimus stepped close enough, while turning to greet the delegate who had just spoken to Jazz, he said, “Mech, this night has gotta end at some point. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Optimus nodded sagely, like he understood, only to say, “It is important we don’t seem like we’re running the Praxians out.”

“Can’t we? Run them out, I mean.”

Optimus dismissed Jazz without a word and left to find the delegate.

Prowl looked entirely unimpressed when Jazz turned back around. His sharp gaze followed Optimus. “He’s useless.”

“Right,” Jazz said, moving to stand back beside him. He caught sight of a Praxian approaching – another delegate, judging from his decals – and kept his voice low. “You guys don’t like Primes.”

“I have nothing against Primes,” Prowl said matter-of-factly.

“Skyfire said Enigma—”

“Enigma has a problem with _everyone_ ,” Prowl said, the faintest hint of irritation entering his voice. He reschooled his faceplates back into that impassive expression before the next delegate stepped up to greet them, flanked by his two steely-opticked guards.

When Gunner came up behind Jazz and put a servo on his shoulder, Jazz nearly jumped out of his plating. He didn’t tire easily – odd recharge schedules came with the job – but his nerves had frayed, and he was at the end of his rope with these Praxians and their meaningless prattle. Many of the mechs present had already retired for the night, including quite a few of the Praxian delegates following their vie for the new couple’s attention. Optimus and Magnus, as well as Enigma and his entourage of guards, still entertained the room.

“It is the tenth cycle,” Gunner said. His tone was empty. “You are free to retire for the night, if you so wish.”

Jazz remembered Skyfire saying something about the tenth cycle when going over the schedule, but then, Skyfire had also launched into a discussion on the different meanings Praxians ascribed to numbers and how that influenced their scheduling, and Jazz had zoned out pretty fast after that.

Gunner didn’t move, but Prowl took a step back to offer Jazz a way out. Jazz offered up his arm to Prowl, and the mech took it with a smile too small for Gunner – looming at Jazz’s back – to catch. Jazz felt his spark spin faster. One expression, and it felt like a secret language between them.

“I shall escort you to your quarters for the night,” Gunner said curtly.

“Thanks, but nah. Pretty sure I can find my own way.” Jazz waved Gunner off.

The guard fixed Prowl with a hard look. “You let your bonded speak to authority in such a way?”

“It would be so awful to start my bonding off by being contrary,” Prowl said.

Before Gunner could retort, Ironhide appeared at the mech’s side, Skyfire’s shadow looming over them both. “Mech, you mind if we talk about tomorrow’s arrangements for a klik?”

“All plans have been finalized cycles in advance,” Gunner said.

“Just want to review them with you,” Ironhide replied. “Would be a shame if something were to go wrong, you know.”

Gunner scowled, but he stepped in the direction Ironhide gestured him, quickly vanishing behind Skyfire’s towering frame.

Jazz pulled Prowl along the moment Gunner’s optics moved away from them. The Praxian followed him willingly. The moment they entered the shadows lining the edge of the room like a dusky curtain, Jazz felt himself relax. They turned a corner, and it was though a flip switched in Prowl as well; his wings lowered from their high position as his back to a more natural one halfway down; his shoulders lost some of their tension.

“I do hope you really know where you’re going,” Prowl said. “Gunner isn’t above tracking us down at some point.”

And Jazz had thought Enigma would be bad. “What’s that mech’s problem, anyway?”

Prowl offered a shrug in response. “Gunner is my guardian. It is his responsibility to look after me.”

“Aren’t you an Enforcer in training?”

“I’ve already completed basic training; I was entering advanced tactics before I came here,” Prowl said. “Gunner hasn’t been with me to protect me physically. More to… ensure I do not break traditions and risk a future alliance.”

“So not to help you, just to protect you like a piece of merchandise.”

“So concerned for my honor already? What a gentlemech.” Prowl’s voice was dry.

Jazz smiled and offered an exaggerated mimicry of the shrug Prowl had given him. “What can I say, mech? You had me swooning when you did the same for me with Gunner.”

Prowl’s expression slipped into something more neutral. “Gunner was merely attempting to follow procedure. I can see where he was coming from.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming in there.”

Prowl continued, “But, I’d much rather spend time with you alone.”

No. _No_ , Jazz was _not_ going to admit the way that made his spark soar. He was totally not that easy to make smitten, however much he joked about it. This mech couldn’t just play him like this; that was _his_ thing.

He kept half a step behind Prowl, who walked down the halls with the confidence of someone who definitely had seen and memorized a map of the place. It also happened to give him a great view of the doorwings, of the faint way they jumped in time with Prowl’s steps. If Prowl noticed him staring, he didn’t say anything.

Even when he nearly ran into the left doorwing when Prowl suddenly stopped.

“This is your room, correct?” Prowl said. The nearly-offended doorwing flicked minutely in irritation.

Jazz was ready to argue, until he glanced at the door and saw, yeah, actually, that was his room. Time flies, or something.

“Do you intend to open the door, or will we be camping out in the hallway this orn?” Prowl asked.

“So demanding,” Jazz muttered teasingly, before inputting his code into the access panel. The door drew open slowly, and Jazz gestured Prowl inside. Definitely out of politeness, and not to get one last glimpse at those doorwings.

* * *

Prowl entered the room ahead of Jazz. Despite no company having been present, a single small light had remained on, illuminating what appeared be a small energon dispenser in the corner. A couch stretched out through the middle of the main room, a well-worn sitar leaned languidly against its edge. Data-pads were scattered across a low table in a variety of languages, Cybertronian only one among them. Shelves filled mainly with a sundry assortment of knickknacks decorated the walls. The amount of things, the sheer diversity of the objects present, seemed to make the room appear smaller. Cozier, perhaps. A doorway to the left led into a berthroom, relatively nondescript compared to the main room.

One of the data-pads on the short table caught Prowl’s optic as he glanced back over it. An all-too familiar title stared back at him. “You know Praxian?” he inquired.

Jazz moved to stand beside him. Prowl could feel the warmth of his frame against his sensor panels. He shifted awkwardly. “I learned a little bit. I think Skyfire left that behind, thinking I’d get bored enough to read it.”

Prowl cocked an optical ridge. “I have to say, the origin and purpose of Praxian traditional laws is not exactly a riveting read.”

Jazz laughed. “You’re telling me.”

“Trust me, I’m well-acquainted with them.”

Jazz smile faded as he glanced back at the door. “How many joors do you think we have before your friend comes to drag us out by our scruffs?”

“Gunner is not my friend,” was all Prowl said to that. Taking a step closer to the couch, he inspected the sitar. “You play music?”

That was apparently the right path of questioning to go down, as a smile more genuine than Jazz had shown in joors lit up his face-plates. “Yeah,” he said, walking to stand next to Prowl. “I used to do concerts, before…” He gestured aimlessly. “All this.”

“You have extensive collections,” Prowl noted, taking in the cluttered room in one more once-over.

“Officially, I was a cultural investigator,” Jazz said. “I went all sorts of places, met all these different creatures. Been all over Cybertron for work and on tour. Met a good portion of the Council before they deactivated. Played concerts for some of them.”

“You miss it,” Prowl said simply.

Jazz shrugged. “It is what it is, mech.”

“Is that how you’ve come to accept this so easily?” Prowl asked.

It seemed to take Jazz a klik to work out what he meant. Jazz’s smile dissipated. “I don’t have anything against you,” Jazz said, and he sounded honest enough. “The situation’s fragged, yeah, but you seem nice enough.” He paused, then added, “What about you? You’re good with this?”

“I always knew my bonding would be political in nature,” Prowl said. “This was not unexpected.”

“That’s fragged,” Jazz said. “Bonding ought to be for love.”

Such a basic outlook, as though things could ever be that simple. “Perhaps it ought to be,” Prowl agreed, “but that’s not the situation we are in. Circumstances rarely align with what things _ought_ to be.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t make the most of what you’ve got,” Jazz said.

Prowl had a retort at the ready – something about circumstances determining resources – but the words left his vocalizer when Jazz took his servos, clasped behind his back, and spun him around to face him. Prowl was too shocked to fight the movement. He found himself facing the mech, close enough to feel the thrum of his spark from his chassis even though their armor wasn’t touching. He thought he could see the faintest outline of Jazz’s optics beneath his dark blue visor.

“We _could_ get a good thing going,” Jazz pointed out.

“You’re a hopeless optimist,” Prowl replied. He could barely make out his own words beneath the hammering of his fuel pump. Damn this mech.

“It’s my friend, OP. He’s a bad influence.”

“No worse than my company,” Prowl relented.

Jazz laughed. “Can’t argue with you there, mech.”

“Though, perhaps you make up for it,” Prowl added.

Jazz’s smile was genuine. “You’re gonna make me blush.”

“And here I thought you were supposed to be the suave one.”

“I am! This” – Jazz dramatically laid a servo on his chassis – “is your fault.”

“My fault?” Prowl echoed.

“You’re too pretty. I think it’s the doorwings. Maybe the chevron.”

Prowl shook his helm. “Incredible. It’s a good thing this ceremony took place in Iacon; you may have been rendered catatonic in Praxus.”

“No, no, no,” Jazz said. “Not ‘Praxians’. Just you.”

Prowl didn’t have a response to that. He felt as though he should wait for a punchline, but it never came.

The kiss that followed was just as unexpected. It was far lighter than the one on the rooftop had been, barely a brush of Jazz’s lip-plates against his own. A ghost of a kiss, an offer of more, if he wanted. Prowl found himself leaning in without realizing, tipping himself into Jazz’s frame, pressing them together again.

“Yeah,” Jazz murmured, “just you.”


	5. The Night

Jazz kissed him again, and Prowl felt like his frame had melted against the Polyhexian, like he was nothing but malleable cyber-matter in the Autobot’s talented servos. He guided them through the suite like it was a dance, expertly avoiding tripping over Prowl’s unsteady pedes.

Out of the corner of his optic, Prowl caught sight of the berth, drawing closer. He made a note of it, but its presence was pushed to the back of his processor as Jazz’s glossa did something terribly distracting against his lip-plates. He hadn’t expected to be the one to pull Jazz closer to the berth, but heat was racing through his frame and he wanted Jazz closer, closer, closer.

Prowl didn’t realize he had fallen back until his doorwings met the soft padding of a berth. One servo immediately reached out from habit, searching for a pillow to place between his doorwings to keep the pressure of his frame off them. His other servo stayed on Jazz’s cheek-plate, fingertips warmed by the hot exhale of his vents.

Jazz had sidled between his thighs, which easily parted to make room for his frame without Prowl’s conscious thought. Even without it touching, Prowl could feel the heat of Jazz’s interface panel radiating against his own. The first ping entered his HUD, his interface panel asking for permission to retract. Startled, Prowl drew back, quickly dismissing the notification.

Jazz paused, not attempting to move closer to him. With a slight frown, he asked, “Is it the wings?”

Prowl worried his vocalizer would spit static, but his voice – though a bit strangled – came out clear. “Yes,” he lied. His spark spun wildly in his chassis. Prowl thought it had to be impossible for Jazz not to hear the whirr of it in the quiet room. Perhaps graciously, the other mech said nothing.

One of Jazz’s servos slid down from his hip, lightly tracing along the outside of his thigh. The gesture itself was far from provocative, meant more in a calming way, but the urgent inquiry to open his interface panels flashed up once more on Prowl’s HUD, this time more insistently. Prowl hesitated to deny it.

“What position would be best for you?” Jazz asked quietly. Their faces were close enough for Prowl to see the gears of his voice box turning as he spoke.

Prowl froze. Position? As far as he knew – as far as Enigma had suggested – he was simply meant to lay back and spread his legs; all the rest would be up to Jazz. He supposed that could work, if he could get a pillow between his doorwings to prevent his frame from weighing on them.

Before he could think better of it – or worse, let his tactical systems get hold of the situation, he drew further back on the berth. He grabbed one of the many pillows at the headboard and positioned it lengthways at the center, hoping it alone would be durable enough to support his doorwings. These berths – this furniture in general – wasn’t exactly build with winged Cybertronians in mind. But that didn’t matter. It was better than nothing, and either way, it best to get it over with than draw it out further.

Jazz’s mouth converged with his own the moment he leaned back over the pillow. This kiss was heavier, deeper. Prowl found himself falling back willingly, uncaring about the pressure on his doorwings, Jazz’s frame settling over his own like a perfect mold. The contact was comforting, rather than stifling, as Prowl had expected. The warmth radiating from his frame seemed to bleed the tension from Prowl’s joints.

A servo brushed against his cheek, a gentle gesture in stark comparison to the hard kiss that consumed his processor as much as his mouth. A second servo hooked under his knee, drawing his leg up to the side of Jazz’s hip. The mech had fully settled between his legs now. There was a clang as their interface panels ground together at last, no longer obstructed by distance or frame. Prowl gasped into Jazz’s mouth, the sound lost beneath the whirring of their fans. Prowl didn’t know when his had clicked on high; the past ten kliks seemed like nothing but a blur.

The servo that had positioned his leg drifted up his thigh, until a digit was tracing the edge of his interface panel. Prowl’s start at the contact didn’t go unnoticed this time. Jazz’s ministrations became less insistent, lightly skirting along the edge of Prowl’s panel. “Open for me?” Jazz asked, and this time Prowl could feel the vibrations from his voice box.

If an option popped up on his HUD again, Prowl didn’t notice it. The next moment, Jazz’s touch on his panel was gone, and the cold air of the room hit his components for the first time. Jazz’s mouth withdrew from his, allowing him to draw in vents freely to aid his rapidly overheating systems.

Jazz hesitated not a hairsbreadth above him. Prowl could feel the hot exhales of his vents against his frame as well. “You good?” he asked.

Rather than respond, Prowl curled a servo around one of his audial horns and dragged him back down into a crushing kiss. Jazz moaned, his glossa emerging to prod at Prowl’s lip-plates. The servo at Prowl’s helm tweaked the sharp edge of his chevron in retaliation, and the resulting surge of heat through his frame had Prowl’s optics whiting out.

“So the chevron’s a good place?” Jazz asked, a grin stretched wide across his faceplates.

“Very much so,” Prowl responded, and this time there was static lacing his voice.

Jazz drew him back into that heated kiss. His servo on Prowl’s thigh inched closer to his open array again, this time letting a digit brush lightly across his pulsing anterior node. Prowl seized as another wave of pleasure surged through his frame. This time, the sensation did not recede back, as Jazz’s digit continued to massage the sensitive bundle. Prowl’s helm fell back, his optics dimming as his processor rerouted all sensors to his array.

A digit continued to rub insistently at his node while another prodded the entrance to his valve. Prowl gasped as the entrance gave way. Jazz’s digit easily slid in, soaked in copious lubricant. He massaged the walls, paying close mind to the embedded nodes, slowly inching deeper into that welcoming heat.

Once he had worked it past the valve rim, the second digit slid in just as easily. Jazz scissored his digits, stretching the calipers open further. There was no pain like Enigma had suggested, just a faint burn as the unused calipers moved in ways they had not yet done so before.

There was a flare of pain-pleasure when Jazz’s digits finally encountered a barrier. Prowl started, Jazz’s frame over him keeping him steady in place. The blunt edge of Jazz’s digits stroked the seal once more, sending a shiver up Prowl’s back-struts, before retreating. Heavy pressure probing at his valve rim was the only warning he received before a third digit joined the others in stroking his walls.

Jazz’s thumb had remained mostly still as he explored, a warm pressure at the edge of his panel. Consumed by the feeling of Jazz’s digits inside him, he didn’t notice when it disappeared, but he certainly felt the surge of pleasure that came when Jazz applied pressure to his anterior node. Jazz drew back, and Prowl began to online his optics fully again when Jazz started to roll it, and his optics went black as overload tossed him into a system reset.

When he came back online, Jazz’s servo had vanished from his panel. With unsteady movements, he propped himself up on his forearms to observe Jazz kneeling between his legs. His servo was soaked in Prowl’s lubricant, which he spread liberally down the ridges of his spike. Blue biolights, the same deep shade as his visor, gleamed from it, illuminating deep ridges that made Prowl’s spark spin faster as he imagined them catching on the nodes lining his valve wall. There was a slight ridge at the top of his spike base, and it took Prowl a moment to realize it was to stimulate his node once Jazz bottomed out.

Jazz leaned back over him, his field enveloping Prowl, mirroring his own desire. He once again took hold of Prowl’s leg, maneuvering his frame around Jazz’s hips. Another servo lined his spike up with the entrance to Prowl’s valve. He felt the tip begin to press against the rim, adding pressure until it gave way and allowed the first ridge of Jazz’s spike inside. Jazz drew back slightly before pressing in again, this time to the second ridge. His calipers were forced to stretch wider at the intrusion, wider than Jazz’s digits had stretched them. Prowl couldn’t swallow back the gasp that fell from his lips as his calipers opened further, further than he thought they could, reluctantly giving way to make room for Jazz inside him.

When the head of Jazz’s spike finally hit the seal, Prowl instinctively recoiled, Jazz’s servo gripping his knee keeping him from moving anywhere. Jazz drew back, the tip of his spike sliding in and out of Prowl’s valve, the ridges catching on the rim as he moved, slowly dragging it out. Prowl couldn’t hold back a moan when one of the ridges caught and tugged on his valve rim.

Jazz retreated until only the head of his spike penetrated Prowl’s valve. There was no warning, and in one swift movement, Jazz fully seated himself within Prowl. Prowl found himself arching up into Jazz’s frame. The motion rubbed the ridge at the base of his spike against his node, sending a shock of pleasure through him that nearly drowned out the ache.

It was a stretch unlike anything Prowl could have imagined. His calipers held firm around Jazz’s spike, the ridges nudging the various nodes within with each slight movement Jazz made. Jazz shifted his hips, rubbing Prowl’s node once more against the ridge at the base, and Prowl felt the head of his spike push against the gel wall of his gestation chamber. Just a slight tilt and Jazz could pierce it, but there was no need yet.

“Jazz,” Prowl groaned.

He shifted at the sound of his designation, and oh, that was wonderful. “I won’t move until you tell me.”

“ _Move_.”

His spike, slicked with energon and lubricant, moved easily within the tight confines of Prowl’s valve. Prowl’s helm fell back against the pillows as his arms gave out beneath him. The overwhelming feeling of fullness came and went in waves in time with Jazz’s thrusts. Part of Prowl relished in the heavy push and pull of Jazz’s spike; another part desired that unequivocal fullness that came with Jazz fully inside him.

His pace started out slow and steady, with Prowl feeling every run of those ridges against his nodes. His speed built slowly, until it all seemed to merge into a haze of pleasure. The pain from the calipers, stretched tight around Jazz’s spike, morphed into a steady ache that just fed into the bliss.

A second overload built up slowly, and this time Prowl recognized it coming on. He tilted his hips up, trying to get Jazz to drive in deeper, harder, give him that last bit he needed to go over the edge. “Jazz,” Prowl hissed, arching up. Jazz’s servo caught his chin, pulling his mouth into a searing kiss.

“Come on, babe,” Jazz murmured against his lip-plates, “overload for me.”

He continued to thrust through the spasmodic clenching of Prowl’s overload. For a wonderful moment, it seemed that pleasure would never end. Then Jazz’s thrusts began to turn from blissful to just on the edge of painful.

Jazz slowed down. He steadied his vents against Prowl’s neck. Prowl’s thighs were a mess of lubricants, but Jazz’s spike was still hard and heavy inside him.

“You didn’t—” Prowl began.

“Waiting on you,” Jazz said. “You good?”

In response, Prowl rolled his hips up against Jazz’s. He felt the vibrations from the mech’s groan against his neck cables.

Jazz’s pace picked back up, now lacking the rhythm he had kept before. Unsteady thrusts plunged deep into Prowl’s oversensitive valve, the mech setting a relentless speed as he chased his own finish. Prowl’s frame rocked with his movements, his doorwings flared out at his sides as though begging to be touched, though Prowl wasn’t sure how he could possibly handle the stimulation.

Apparently, Jazz picked up on this, because as he thrust deep one last time, his spike piercing the gel wall, he wrenched a doorwing down from the base. Prowl’s optics whited out.

When he came to, he realized he must have overloaded again, because more lubricant had made its way onto his thighs. His chest plates had opened, the light of his spark swallowed into Jazz's own open chassis. The sound of Jazz's chest plates transforming back into place snapped him partially out of his daze and he closed his own. Jazz pulled out slowly, luckily without much mess since he had overloaded into Prowl’s gestation chamber.

Prowl didn’t know when Jazz grabbed a cloth, but he felt the soft fabric brush against the insides of his thighs. He sat up on clumsy arms, still trying to figure out how to get his legs to work again. His optics, locked on the mess coating his frame, failed to see Jazz swooping in and connecting their lip-plates again. Prowl was exhausted, and Jazz controlled the kiss.

Jazz seemed to notice this and pulled back, tossing the cloth aside. He maneuvered from between Prowl’s legs to his side in one fluid movement, the side of his frame pressed flush against Prowl’s. He was still running hot, his engine growling in his chassis.

“Recharge with me?” Jazz asked, his visor bright.

Prowl leaned forward, until the center of his chevron touched Jazz’s forehelm. “Of course.”


	6. The Music

Prowl came to that morning slowly, to open windows welcoming a faint breeze wafting up the muddled noise of the city below. They had the opportunity to continue their lives without concern, blissfully unaware of the strategic shadow dealings between their Prime and Praxus. Prowl wondered what story he and Enigma had concocted to keep the populace off their back; he would need to play along with it, after all.

It took him a moment, as his systems sluggishly onlined, to realize that some of the sounds were far closer. Music echoed faintly through the quarters, muffled by the heavy door between the berth-room and the living area. It was a strong, fluid melody he didn’t recognize. Then again, he didn’t exactly listen to much music in the first place. If his sleek sitar, propped up at the center of his room like an idol was anything to go by, Jazz probably had a collection of data tracks large enough to fill a shelf.

He rose from the berth, shoving away mismatched sheets. The cables in his thighs ached with the movement. His valve was sore and tender. He appreciated Jazz’s effort, but if this was how it felt after, he had no interest in a repeat performance. Not that he had been interested in a first performance either.

He made his way over to the door, doing his best not to shuffle or wince. The last thing he needed was Jazz thinking him weak, or worse, getting offended. He didn’t want to imagine the coming storm if Enigma caught wind that Prowl had managed to upset his bonded within half a cycle; he had been issued plenty of warnings.

The door slid open quietly, giving him access to the cozy, compact room between him and the outside world. He saw Jazz instantly, his white plating glistening in the hazy light coming in from the windows. No other light sources had been turned on. He sat on the couch, legs curled beneath him, the sitar straddling his lap. His digits moved swiftly across the instrument’s neck in time with the music that flowed through the apartment.

Prowl paused, transfixed by the sight. He had assumed the music, so flawless in its playthrough, had come from a recording. It was quite the sight to see Jazz like this, his digits dancing over the strings, his dark visor dimmed to nearly black. Prowl couldn’t fathom playing such a melody correctly even with the dexterity of medic servos, let alone with his optics off.

Prowl stepped forward, letting his pede-steps announce his presence. “You play beautifully,” he said, as the last of the music faded. “I can see why the Senate would employ you.”

“Thanks.” Jazz set the sitar aside.

Prowl glanced around the dark room. “How long have you been awake?”

Jazz shrugged. “Some time. I don’t have anything close to a normal recharge schedule. Usually play when I can’t recharge.” He suddenly looked up at Prowl. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I woke up on my own,” Prowl said. “Besides, it was quite a nice melody to wake to.”

“Aw, mech, you don’t gotta be such a flirt. I’m already yours.”

Prowl tried not to show how fast that made his spark spin. “I mean it. You’re very talented.”

Jazz dipped his helm, idly plucking one of the strings on the sitar. “And Praxus?” he asked. “What’s the music like there?”

Prowl considered the question for a moment. “Quieter,” he said, at last. “Slower. Very… utilitarian. It lacks the flourish you bring.”

Jazz smiled and shifted, moving from the center of the couch. He gestured to the space beside him. “Take a seat, make yourself at home. You gotta tell me all about Praxian music.”

He reluctantly made his way over to the couch, sitting at the edge. “There isn’t much to tell,” he said. “Music is far from a popular hobby in Praxus. Many see it as a frivolity. There is no place for steady employment for musicians. Those who do engage in the practice do so in their own time. Thus the cultural progression of music there has been slow.”

“Shame,” Jazz said. His idle string-picking had turned into a curt melody. “All those crystals in Praxus could make for some sweet stage set-ups. Could probably be cut into some fancy instruments too.”

“From crystals?” Prowl echoed skeptically.

“Yeah.” Jazz looked up, an animated smile cutting across his faceplates. “The crystals hold sound real nicely. I’ve seen a couple of them in my travels. They’re really kind on the optics as well.”

Judging from the various knickknacks around the room, Jazz made a habit of collecting things he found pretty. A quick glance around the room confirmed what Prowl suspected. “But you don’t own one yourself?”

“Nah.” Jazz shook his helm. “Praxus keeps their crystals close. Only mechs I ever knew who could afford them were Senators, and now most of them are dead and their treasures gone.”

“A pity,” Prowl said, as he made a mental note. “I agree that Praxian crystals are quite lovely.”

“Did you ever raise any yourself?” Jazz asked. “I tried growing a couple – not from Praxus, of course – but I couldn’t keep ‘em alive for the life of me. I tried keeping them everywhere – here, my office. Perceptor couldn’t even save them after I was done.”

Despite his carefree tone, Prowl saw the faintest rise of energon in his cheek-plates, and his spark spun strangely at the sight. It was… not cute – Jazz was a grown mech, a soldier in the Autobot army, after all – but interesting, perhaps.

“I dabbled in it, as a hobby,” Prowl admitted. “Only small ones on my desk. It was easy to avoid forgetting about them when they stayed in my sight constantly.”

“You should’ve brought them with you,” Jazz said. He gestured behind him. “I got a few windows around here, they’d have plenty of light here.” His expression was brighter than the sunlight streaming in. Warmer too. “Maybe you could even give me a few pointers on keeping them alive for longer than a few cycles.”

Prowl smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, the continued possession of my property was not accounted for in our deal.”

Jazz’s grin faded. “What, so you don’t have anything anymore?”

“My possessions went back to Enigma’s estate, as did anything Barricade left behind.”

“Even the crystals?”

Prowl felt a slight twinge in his spark. “No, I believe those would have been tossed out. Enigma has no interest in cultivating them. He believes growing crystals for any reason other than future sale is a waste of time.”

Jazz let out a long sigh. “Slag, mech, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? Why would you be sorry?” Prowl tilted his helm. “You had nothing to do with the custody of my possessions. It’s tradition that anything not requested in the bonding be returned to the family’s estate, a repayment of sorts for the loss of a member.”

“It’s not that simple,” Jazz protested. “This isn’t a transaction; you’re not some piece of property that can be traded away.”

 _A transaction is exactly what this is_ , Prowl thought. _My spark to the Autobots, for Praxus’s neutrality. Exactly what Barricade gave the Decepticons_. The only difference was that Barricade had a choice in the matter, and he had had an opportunity to grab a few scant possessions before Enigma could stop him.

“As you say,” Prowl said diplomatically.

“I’ve heard Bumblebee lie more convincingly,” Jazz replied.

Prowl frowned. He didn’t know any Bumblebee yet, but he assumed Jazz meant to deride his skill. “I’m perfectly capable of being convincingly manipulative,” he said, for no other reason than to be petty. The moment the words cleared his vocalizer, his spark felt as though it stopped. The last thing he needed was to tick Jazz off and let Enigma catch word of it.

But Jazz was smiling a cocky grin when Prowl met his gaze again. “Sure, sure.” Jazz made a dismissive gesture with his servo. “And Ratchet is all warm and cuddly.”

“I can,” Prowl insisted. He arched an optical ridge. “You believed me about the music, didn’t you?”

Jazz laid a servo over his chassis. “Ouch, Prowler, right to the spark. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Here I thought the topic of conversation was lies.”

Jazz had a naturally joyous laugh, so light and impossibly infectious. Prowl felt the faintest of smiles echoing on his own faceplates against his own volition. Such things had never come easily to him, not that Jazz knew it.

Enigma would have accused him of going soft. Jazz had no reason to remain invested in Prowl, save for what Prowl himself brought to the table. This was not a relationship built on mutual affection, but merely Jazz’s benefit. If Prowl ever became more of a burden than a boon, Jazz would be well within his rights to dismiss him, no matter the consequences. Enigma’s disappointment was not something Prowl could risk facing. His return to Praxus would mean Praxus’s fall.

Prowl steeled himself. He would not allow himself to be fooled into believing this union was something it was not, no matter how much Jazz made him wish it was real. The way Jazz spoke, his closeness and easy familiarity, made it almost so that Prowl could live happily in the fantasy he had bonded for love. Prowl hadn’t entertained such a delusion since his later sparkling years. Enigma didn’t soften his words when explaining his and Barricade’s future expectations.

“You really gotta meet Optimus Prime,” Jazz said, and Prowl felt something cold wash through his spark. His first thought was a power move on Jazz’s part, but before his tac-net could run with the idea, Jazz continued, “I think between your processor and your glossa, you could give him a run for his shanix. He needs mechs at his side who won’t just prostrate themselves at his pedes whenever he asks about something.”

Prowl didn’t allow himself to relax, to become vulnerable. “And what is it you would have me do, at Optimus Prime’s side?” he inquired.

Jazz’s smile was back, a mischievous light in his bright visor. “You said you got tactical systems, right? OP doesn’t have anything like that yet.”

“Smart mechs would run the other way from your revolution,” Prowl said.

“Maybe, maybe not. But you’re here now, and I can’t imagine you’d be too happy spending your days cramped up in this apartment. Primus knows I can’t stand it for more than a cycle at most; I’d crawl outta here with a broken leg if I had to. So I was thinking, maybe get you on OP’s radar, see what happens.”

Prowl frowned. “I am not interested in attaining a position via a hand-out on Prime’s behalf for you.”

Jazz looked shocked at the accusation. “No, no, nothing like that. Prime wouldn’t give you anything just because we’re conjunx now.”

“Is there any oversight to ensure such a thing?” Prowl asked. “A committee, a council? You were Optimus’s best friend before the formation of the Autobots and now serve as his second-in-command. Me rising through the ranks immediately after becoming your conjunx would be highly suspicious, for the both of us.”

Jazz mimicked the frown on Prowl’s face. “I get what you’re saying,” he said, “but no bot thinks Optimus would do something like that.”

It wasn’t what Optimus Prime or his bots thought that concerned Prowl, but rather, Enigma and the Praxians. They had strict rules preventing nepotism in the Enforcer ranks. They would view Prowl attaining a high position soon after his bonding as a hand-out, and Prowl as a two-shanix whore for accepting it right after spreading his legs for their former enemy. Prowl had no hope of returning to Praxus any time soon, but he didn’t want a tainted reputation to follow him back after the war ended.

“Still,” Prowl said, “I wish to earn any position through my own merit. With time.”

Jazz’s visor flicked down. “How fast the ‘Cons are moving,” he said, “we don’t have much of that.”

Clearly the Autobots knew far more about the Decepticon movement than Praxus did, even when they had come snooping around Barricade. If Prowl was to earn his position, he would need a starting place. To aid the Autobots, he needed information on the Decepticons.

“How would I go about accessing the data you have collected on the opposing faction?” Prowl asked.

Jazz looked back up. “You changing your tune? Already?”

“As I said, I intend to earn my keep. I need a starting place. I fear I’m quite far behind. Any information I can access will be appreciated.”

Jazz grinned. “Mech, I’m Optimus’s second. I can get you _everything_.”

Prowl couldn’t help but mirror his expression; those smiles were more contagious than cosmic rust, honestly. “That would be _highly_ appreciated.”

Jazz waved a servo. “Well, we are conjunx. What’s mine is yours, and all that slag.”

True enough, Prowl relented. Love aside, Jazz could be useful, so long as Prowl kept him in his corner. Perhaps, if they kept friendly enough, Jazz would continue contact with Prowl after the war ended and he returned to Praxus. A quiet part of his processor suggested that maybe, just maybe, it would be real by then, and Jazz would come to Praxus with him. He immediately dismissed such a notion. Jazz and Praxus… would not get along. He and Enigma, even less so. One creation had already disappointed Enigma, he didn’t need a second.

“We are conjunx,” Prowl said, leaning closer. “And still, it seems, quite alone.”

Jazz’s smile turned predatory. “I like the way you think, mech.”

He moved quickly, his lip-plates meeting Prowl’s in an instant. Prowl fell into the kiss, into the warmth radiating from Jazz’s frame. The mech moved closer, and Prowl could feel his spark pulsing in time with his own, still so perfectly in sync from the bond that night.

A servo stroked up Prowl’s cheek-plates, stopping at the top of his helm to pinch the sharp edge of his chevron. He couldn’t hold back the moan at the wave of pleasure that surged through his frame, cascading across his neural net like hot oil. Jazz bit down lightly on his lip-plates. Prowl felt the sharp edge of a fanged denta he had yet to notice pull at his bottom lip. A modded spike, fanged dentae like a Kaonite; what else did his frame hide?

A pillow positioned at the edge of the couch was available to offer support for his doorwings. Prowl hooked a servo into the top of Jazz’s chassis and pulled him forward as he leaned back, opening his legs to give Jazz room to settle between them. The weight of Jazz’s frame collapsed over him. The pillow, apparently not as sturdy as Prowl had hoped, did little to cushion his doorwings. Jazz’s own servo grabbed the back of Prowl’s knee and pulled his leg over his hip.

Jazz broke away from the kiss to say, “Berth? Or here?”

Between the steady ache beginning in his doorwings and the still-throbbing walls of his valve, Prowl didn’t trust himself to walk to the berth in a way Jazz wouldn’t notice as uncomfortable. He had already begun this by pulling Jazz onto him; if Jazz suspected he was hurt and doing this for a reason other than pleasure, he would become suspicious. But he needed to get Jazz close, make himself useful, wanted.

“We haven’t christened the couch yet,” Prowl said, and pulled Jazz back into a searing kiss.

“Yeah, mech,” Jazz murmured, trailing kisses down the cables of his throat, “I _really_ like the way you think.”


	7. The Departure

The knock came at the door suddenly, startling Jazz and Prowl out of their reprieve. Prowl’s vents had slowed back down to an acceptable level, the condensation slowly drying off his frame. The heat of Jazz’s own frame, still flush against his, pinning him to the couch, hadn’t helped in that aspect. But there was something nice, something comforting, in having Jazz’s frame over him, like a cage keeping the outside world at bay. No politics, no shadowy dealings, just them.

Jazz pulled away from the throat cable his glossa had been lavishing wonderful attention upon in the wake of fanged bites, and Prowl almost groaned at the loss. Cool air hit where the searing heat of his mouth had once been. “Who the frag is that?”

Prowl nudged Jazz’s shoulder away, giving himself room to sit up. Jazz moved off him, his depressurizing spike slipped from his valve, ridges rubbing along hypersensitive nodes. He snapped his panels closed, unwilling to leave a moment to acknowledge the emptiness he felt in Jazz’s wake.

A cold wave had stilled his spark the moment he recognized the knock, and undoubtedly, only a few kliks after merging, Jazz had felt it strongly too. He hurriedly wiped his thighs clean while Jazz made himself presentable. While Jazz was distracted hiding the evidence of their activities from any potentially prying optics, Prowl crossed over to the door, ignoring the throbbing in his valve. It was only a few steps, and then he could retreat again.

Gunner’s bleak face greeted him on the other side, his lip-plates pulled into a characteristic scowl. Prowl stood in the doorway, unmoving, until Jazz arrived at his shoulder and opened the door wider.

“Gunner,” Jazz said. His loud, cheery exclamation was a stark contrast to the low susurrations he had whispered in Prowl’s audial. “Wish I could say it was nice to see you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Gunner said, in his creeping monotone voice. His icy optics fixed on Prowl, narrowed into pinpricks. “Your presence has been requested by Commander Enigma. You are to report to the medbay immediately. No detours.”

“Medbay?” Jazz said.

“I assume Enigma is taking his leave?” Prowl queried.

“What’s that got to do with—?”

“Enigma must confirm the bonding before he and his cohort depart,” Gunner said. “You have had your time. Enigma cannot afford to postpone his return to Praxus for your sake.”

“Confirm?” Jazz echoed. “It’s not any business of his if we—”

“Jazz,” Prowl said, cutting him off before he could become too impassioned in front of Gunner. “It’s fine.”

Jazz frowned. “Another Praxian tradition?”

Prowl only nodded.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Jazz asked.

Prowl shifted. The idea of Jazz at his side made a warm feeling encircle his spark, but the last thing he needed was Jazz noticing his discomfort in the presence of Gunner or Enigma, either of which would surely pick up on his reaction, however minute. Prowl already wasn’t looking forward to this conversation – the last thing he needed was more disappointment from Enigma, who already wouldn’t shake off the shame of having two creations bonded to outsiders. Faction-aligned outsiders, at that.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” he said, “but I would prefer to see my sire off on my own.”

Jazz, thankfully, looked almost relieved at that. “I should probably check in with Optimus,” he said, slipping past Gunner. “I’ll see you later, sweetspark.” Half his visor flicked off and back on an imitation of a wink, and then he was gone.

Prowl wasn’t aware he had been stalling his vents until he vanished. Not that it mattered, since that gesture would’ve knocked the air from his vents anyhow.

Gunner fixed him with a glower. “I can hear your spark thrumming from here,” he said, his tone edged with disgust. Prowl could almost hear the gears in his jaw grinding.

Without a further word, he turned around, beckoning for Prowl to follow him down the hall. Prowl did, grateful that Gunner seemed content to allow Prowl to stay behind him like a subordinate, hiding his limp. Gunner probably did think lesser of him, having bonded to an outsider. No matter the benefit to the whole of Praxus, it would still be seen as a personal failing.

The door to the medbay fell open, and Gunner gestured Prowl inside first. Prowl’s spark sank as he shuffled past Gunner, into the bright white room. Luckily, it seemed empty. Only the form of Enigma’s personal medic shadowed the waiting room, his immaculate white plating merging seamlessly with the color of the walls.

“Prowl.” Sift dipped his helm to his former commander. “The Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer Ratchet has granted us use of a room just this way. If you would please.” He motioned Prowl toward a door to the side, halfway open.

Prowl entered, no longer bothering to hide his discomfort. Gunner, trained as he was to protect the Prince of Praxus’s honor, would have recognized it immediately, and Sift would know everything in a moment’s time anyway. He shoved his self-respect to the corner of his processor. He knew this would occur before Enigma left; the Commander of Praxus was far too thorough to leave any stone unturned.

“Please, have a seat,” Sift said, the door sliding shut behind him. “Put your pedes up.”

Prowl hesitated, relishing his last moment of dignity, before he complied, movements inching.

“Come on, now, enough with the idling,” Gunner said, crossing his arms as he loomed in the corner. “Surely you’re getting well-acquainted with this position, no?”

“Must he be here?” Prowl asked Sift.

The medic gave him a helpless look, but it was Gunner who responded. “I am here so that Enigma may ensure you haven’t pulled any of your tricks that might cost us this alliance.”

Sift rapped lightly on his panel, and Prowl let it open. He did his best to ignore the medic. “They’re hardly tricks. Just because you’re too daft to understand them doesn’t make it magic.”

A digit, cold with lubricant, pushed against the rim of his valve. The feeling was awkward, but not unpleasant. Jazz’s spike had stretched him wide not but a few kliks before, in a far more enjoyable manner, in far better company than his present entourage. However unwanted the bonding itself was, Jazz himself was quite agreeable company to keep.

Sift went about his examination quietly and professionally. Gunner’s gaze remained fixed on Prowl, as though expected to catch his servos in the act of planting evidence, as if it were even possible. Prowl kept his own optics fixed on the white ceiling, determined not to let any reaction play out on his frame. Gunner would pounce on any weakness Prowl let show, and whatever Gunner knew eventually made its way to Enigma’s audials.

When Sift removed his current tool, Prowl braced himself for another intrusion, and it was a welcome surprise when Sift said, “You can close your panel now.” Prowl did so immediately, sitting up with his legs as tightly shut as possible.

“Well?” Gunner said.

Though Prowl knew what Sift would have found, and knew such findings were expected, his faceplates still burned with rapidly rising energon when Sift spoke.

“His valve seal is completely gone,” Sift said, his voice even and clinical, a stark contrast to the scowl on Gunner’s faceplates that spoke volumes. “There are no remnants left. That and the inflamed state of the valve walls suggest interface, and not simply seal destruction.”

“So you really fragged the outsider, then?”

Prowl didn’t deign that with a response, and neither did Sift, continuing, “A sample of the remaining transfluid in his gestation tank is a match for Lieutenant-General Jazz’s CNA.”

Prowl turned to glare at Gunner. “You ran a CNA test on the transfluid in my tank?”

Gunner shrugged. “We had to be sure. You are expected to maintain your respectability here. If you were willing to sneak off with one mech at your bonding ceremony, who knows how many others you’ve seduced into the shadows?”

“I sneaked off _with my bonded_ ,” Prowl hissed.

“A disregard for the rules is still a disregard for the rules. I thought your sire raised you better.”

Ignoring that, Prowl said, “That test wasn’t part of the normal panel. You had no right.”

“Enigma did. Following the incident before the bonding ceremony, Enigma wanted to be certain,” Gunner said. “The Autobots proved a bad influence on you almost immediately. The last thing we need is word that you’ve been returned to Praxus because you pass yourself around like party favors.”

Prowl seethed but said nothing more. It was done, and the results had proven Gunner’s suspicions wrong. Primus, he couldn’t wait until this mech was finally in an entirely different quadrant of Cybertron.

“What about a spark-merge?” Gunner asked, looking back to Sift. “Did he bond with the lieutenant-general as instructed?”

“The transfluid uptake suggests a spark-merge was completed,” said Sift.

Gunner fixed his glower back on Prowl. “Are you sure you don’t want to check?”

“Prowl has no reason to reveal his spark, unless he feels inclined to do so,” Sift said, with an air of finality.

“It’s not as though Prowl has anything to hide,” Gunner said. “Unless he _didn’t_ do as instructed.”

Prowl was backed into a corner. If Gunner whispered his reservations in Enigma’s audial, Prowl would never hear the end of it. It was better to get it over with than fight the same battle for orns to come. He did want to be able to return to Praxus after this charade, after all.

Prowl had never opened his chassis in front of another mech before. Praxus was far from religious, but sparks were still revered as something sacred, something intimately personal. Last night, with Jazz, had been his first time retracting those panels, and he didn’t even remember triggering the transformation. Just the warmth afterward, when Jazz’s spark touched his. He didn’t even know whose chassis had withdrawn first.

A brief internal battle ensued between his processor, asserting it was better to get this over with, and his spark, insisting these were _not his mates_. The panels finally retracted, bathing the room in a pale blue light. Sift’s optics took in the spark with a clinical professionalism, while Gunner’s steady gaze remained fixed on them from the corner.

When Sift stepped back, Prowl immediately closed the panels over his spark, venting deeply. Sift made a note on the data-pad in his servo.

“No measurements for confirmation?” Gunner asked, and Prowl could have throttled him.

“I don’t have Lieutenant-General Jazz’s spark signature, so there’s nothing to compare it to,” Sift said. “All I can tell you is that his spark is bonded to another mech. Quite strongly, considering how visible it is.”

Gunner let out a disappointed vent. “I suppose that will have to do, then.”

Prowl held back a derisive noise. He did as Gunner wanted, and he still lost. No doubt conspiracies about his supposed promiscuity would reach Enigma within a few kliks. As though he would share his spark with multiple strangers. He hadn’t even wanted to share it with one.

Prowl started to slide off the medical berth, but Gunner raised a servo. “No need for that,” the guard said. “You should remain with Sift, ensure that your medical records are accurately copied for the Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer. Sift, I require a copy of your notes. I’ll see that Enigma is alerted to these developments.”

Alerted, Prowl thought, as he watched Sift diligently copy the data-pad, as though he had still done something wrong and needed to be tattled on. The longer he endured this charade, the more he understood why Barricade chose to elope, rather than fight Enigma for his right to bond to Blackout. Not that Enigma ever would have wavered.

Gunner took the data-pad and swept out of the room, leaving Sift and Prowl alone. Sift immediately took up another data-pad and began going through Prowl’s basic medical history, confirming data that hadn’t changed since the day Prowl emerged. It was nothing more than a see-through excuse for Gunner to get to Enigma first. Prowl found himself not looking forward to whatever goodbye speech Enigma would prepare for him.

When Gunner finally returned, Sift let the ruse drop and began collecting his few things around the room. Prowl stood, ignoring the various aches throughout his frame. He really couldn’t afford to show further weakness in front of Gunner when the guard had already latched on to one conspiracy he could spin to Enigma.

“Enigma wishes to say goodbye before we depart,” Gunner said, and gestured Prowl through the door, happy to let Prowl walk in front now that he knew to expect to see some weakness.

Prowl gritted his dentae and walked forward. Gunner wouldn’t be getting the satisfaction, so long as he could help it.

The Praxian convoy had converged in the courtyard outside the tower, ready to depart for the transport back to Praxus. One that Prowl took into the city alongside them, but would not be taking out for the foreseeable future. Unless, of course, he could end the war.

When Enigma saw him, the commander gave a curt nod to the captain of his guard and crossed the courtyard toward Prowl. Prowl stopped at the base of the staircase leading into the tower, grateful for an excuse for a reprieve. He could feel Gunner’s smirk on his back as the guard moved to stand beside him, servos clasped behind his back, smug expression in place.

Enigma stopped in front of him, close enough that Prowl could no longer see his entourage assembled by the gates. “Prowl,” he said, by means of greeting.

“Commander.”

Enigma’s gaze flickered to his doorwings, held low at his back. Of course, nothing went unobserved with Enigma. “Outsiders,” he muttered. “So uncouth, viewing our wings like nothing more than fancy handles.”

Prowl said nothing.

“It does pain me so, to leave you with these outsiders,” Enigma said, heaving a long vent. “You had so much potential with the Enforcers, yet it must be squandered here because of your brother.”

“Yes, Commander,” was all Prowl said.

Enigma’s impassive mask shifted to the faintest of frowns. “I am aware that not all our desired confirmation tests were able to be run. The Autobots are hardly in as dire straits as the Decepticons. Therefore, I suggest you invest your abilities into pleasing your new conjunx, so he maintains incentive to keep you around after the gravitation of a new toy has worn off. For Praxus’s sake.”

The gears in Prowl’s jaw ground together. “Of course.”

“My initial suggestion,” continued Enigma, “would be to get yourself sparked, to solidify your presence at his side. However, this additional duty would push you more to the wayside, and right now, Praxus needs audials in Iacon.”

Prowl perked up at that. “Audials?” he echoed.

Enigma reached out, taking his servo in his own. Prowl was so shocked at the contact he nearly dropped the small device Enigma placed in his servo. His digits instinctively wrapped around it in a vice-like hold as Enigma withdrew, as though he had merely shaken his servo.

“Praxus cannot remain disadvantaged on the sidelines,” Enigma said. “Barricade has abandoned you and I, Prowl. We are blind to the Decepticons’ moves. Don’t leave us in the dark about the Autobots as well.”

Prowl let his servos fall to his side, device still clutched in his digits. “You wish me to act as a spy.”

“Not a spy,” Enigma said. “A voice, for Praxus. To keep concern for us at the forefront of Optimus Prime’s processor. But I cannot expect you, separated from your homeland, open to Autobot indoctrination, to serve as such. It will be my words you speak, my acts you carry out; I require nothing more than your vocalizer and servos.”

Prowl felt his fuel tanks churn. His position at Jazz’s side was already precarious, open to falling apart and failing Praxus. The last thing he needed was to risk treason on top of that. But Enigma spoke the truth: Praxus couldn’t remain in the dark if it wanted to survive the coming war. It was only information, and Prowl had access to everything, thanks to Jazz.

“Why couldn’t you discuss an open channel of information with Optimus?” Prowl asked. “You had ample opportunity, between the gossip last night.”

Enigma’s gaze hardened. “Optimus Prime and his Autobots cannot know we fear for Praxus’s safety. They will take it as a sign of weakness, and they will march on Praxus. No, we must keep this between us.”

“I understand,” Prowl said slowly. “I will do my best to serve you, Commander.”

Enigma smiled, a hollow expression, so vastly different from Jazz. His look had unease churning in Prowl’s fuel tank. “I know you will, Prowl. After all, Praxus is all you have left. If it falls, you will be nothing. A stray cog for a nonexistent machine. Truly nothing more than an Autobot’s whore. Be grateful, Prowl. I have given you purpose.”

Enigma was right. If Praxus ceased to exist, and Prowl no longer had a home to return to, a place to serve, his purpose would fail to exist as well. The stain of his failure to protect Praxus, even by mere association, would wreck any career he hoped to begin in Iacon. He would have nothing aside from his couplings with Jazz to look forward to for the rest of his functioning. All his training, all his work, reduced to nothing.

“Yes,” Prowl said. His grip tightened on the device. “Thank you, Commander.”

Enigma nodded, taking a step back. “Then this is not goodbye, Prowl,” he said. “I will be speaking to you soon.”


	8. The Assignment

Jazz found Optimus holed away in his office, dulled blue optics staring listlessly at a data-pad a few nano-kliks away from offlining from disuse. The big bot didn’t even jump when Jazz entered, the lock-pad still flashing green as the doors slid shut behind him.

It hadn’t been hard to locate him. Optimus – ever the archivist at spark – often retreated to his seemingly menial data-pad work when the pressures of leadership became burdensome to bear. Jazz was usually called upon to drag Optimus out at some point; sometimes with a meaningful look from Ironhide, sometimes with a curt command from Ultra Magnus. Jazz remembered the Archives of Iacon, how long Orion Pax would spend there beyond his shifts, how familiar a face Alpha Trion became as Jazz took it upon himself to liberate Orion from those claustrophobic shelves.

A part of him – a small part, but a vocal one nonetheless – held a flicker of resentment at the fact that Optimus could still retreat to his miniature library when the going got tough. It wasn’t like Jazz had his room all to himself anymore. He liked Prowl, but he hated the circumstances.

Optimus had removed his battle-mask, so Jazz could see the way he frowned musingly when Jazz sauntered in. “That was Red Alert’s newest security program,” he said, his voice tired. Jazz figured he had been there since early that morning, or perhaps the night before. “You know you could just ask for my passcode, right?”

“And where’s the fun in that?” Jazz made a dismissive gesture as he perched on the edge of Optimus’s desk. “Tell Red Alert that I’m free whenever he wants to ask for my help.”

“He doesn’t like you,” Optimus said.

Jazz threw a servo over his spark. “Damn, bot, tell me how he really feels.”

Optimus set the data-pad down. “I didn’t expect to see you for quite some time,” Optimus admitted. “Where is your conjunx?” Jazz heard the wariness in his tone.

“Prowl,” Jazz said pointedly, “is off saying goodbye to his sire.”

The Prime let out a small sigh. “I can’t say that I am upset to see the Praxians leaving so soon,” he confessed. “Conversation with Enigma is… tedious.”

“I’m pretty sure the Praxians are just like that in general,” Jazz said. “Didn’t Skyfire give you the same talk he gave me about how they act? The whole always-neutral, no-showing-emotions spiel? Primus knows I heard it enough.”

Optimus shook his helm slowly. “Between leaders, the sharing of information is often expected, as a show of trust. Better to exchange data than reveal emotions, as Skyfire put it. Enigma was… curt, last night. Even Skyfire picked up on it with his guards.”

Jazz shrugged. “He just lost both of his creations to outsiders. Could be upset.”

“Perhaps,” Optimus drawled. He looked at Jazz. “I do not put it past the Praxians to attempt some sort of subterfuge. I cannot fathom a way Prowl would be involved, given his separation from his city-state, but—”

“But you still want me to keep an optic on him,” Jazz said dryly. He felt as though his spark ceased to spin within his chassis. A coldness seeped into his frame.

Optimus, though seemingly deep in thought, picked up on his tone. “Try to learn more about Praxus,” Optimus amended. “Prowl alone would not be a threat, and I have yet to figure out a way he would be able to conspire with Praxus without alerting Red Alert. I think the push-back may come from Praxus itself. Skyfire’s information is useful, but hearing it directly from a Praxian would be most suitable. See what you can figure out from him.”

Jazz paused, his spark sinking kilometers by the klik. “You want me to spy on my bonded.”

“Not spy,” Optimus said hurriedly, as though the words had been queued in his vocalizer, just waiting for Jazz’s inevitable objection. “Just observe. See what you can gather about Praxians from him. Right now, he is our best source.”

“Don’t tell Skyfire that.”

Optimus’s smile was wry and fleeting.

“What capacity are you wanting me to do this in?” Jazz asked, his voice inching. When Optimus’s optical ridges furrowed, he continued, “As your friend in command, keeping an optic on the new Autobot? As the cultural investigator looking to learn more about Praxus? Or as spec ops?”

Optimus’s optics darkened, deep in consideration. “Broach the subject with Prowl as though it were cultural investigation,” Optimus said, “but continue as though it were merely another guise you would adopt.”

Guises and subterfuge and conspiracies. Optimus was speaking, but Jazz recognized Ultra Magnus’s words in his vocalizer. “Be ready to turn on him, you mean. So much for allies.”

“It’s not Prowl I worry about,” Optimus said again. “It’s Enigma. It’s Praxus, with their army of Enforcers and city full of resources.” He looked away. “If Enigma knew the state of the Autobot forces, he would know Praxus could conquer us. Destroy us. We cannot allow him to find this out and hang it over our helms to use us as automatons to keep the Decepticons at bay.”

Jazz couldn’t argue that assessment. The Autobot army, though strong, was still in its infancy. They lacked the type of skilled fighters that Megatron had accumulated through his time in the gladiatorial pits. Jazz managed to bring in some mechs from special ops, but many perished along with the senators they served early in the war. Enigma seemed the type – cold and removed – who wouldn’t hesitate to conquer an army to restore his version of peace on the land. Pit, maybe he would obliterate their command and then turn on the Decepticons as revenge for stealing both his sparklings.

“Why agree to the bonding if you’re worried about Praxus getting the upper servo here?” Jazz asked. “Seems like it would’ve made more sense to tell them to frag off.”

“And let them join the Decepticons?” Optimus replied. “Or worse, incite the Decepticons into laying siege to Praxus, and turning it into another battle-ground for us?”

Jazz remembered Ultra Magnus’s words, that first day when he called him into Optimus’s office to inform him of his bonding. Praxus was a militaristic city-state, but they had plenty of civilians as well. It served as both a hub for tough-armored Enforcers to hone their skills and bookish students to study the law. A battle there would end just as it had in Ultihex, in Circut, in Isotron: Grey mechs on the streets and buildings up in smoke and no winners.

He sighed. “Okay, fine. Kinda. I think you’re wrong, though,” Jazz said.

Optimus’s visage slipped back into one of neutrality. “In what area?”

“Prowl alone not being a threat,” he said. Jazz leaned forward. “You know he’s got advanced tactical training, right?”

Optimus’s optics narrowed. “Enigma failed to mention that.”

Jazz waved a servo dismissively. “Enigma’s got this idea that since Prowl is bonded, he can’t continue his training. I kinda agree with him, to be honest. I don’t think he _needs_ any more training. He’s smart. Real smart. No training in security, but he could probably give Red Alert a run for his shanix. No training in subterfuge, but I think he could fool me if he wanted to.”

“Are you saying you believe he is a threat?” Optimus said, his voice dropping low.

Jazz almost jumped at the implications. “What? No, of course not! I’m saying he’s _useful_. We need a tactician, right? Someone to plan things out so we don’t just hit Megatron hard, but smart? I’m saying I think we have him.”

“Why would Enigma give us Prowl, if he were so useful?”

“I didn’t see any more creations of Enigma running around. Prowl and Barricade are the only ones. It had to be him.”

Optimus rubbed the base of his faceplates. “I’m unsure if—”

“Listen,” Jazz said, “Enigma gave us Prowl because he had no other option. Prowl never completed his tactical training in Praxus because of Barricade’s timing. Enigma thinks we’re just going to shelve Prowl like a trophy conjunx, so he didn’t have to worry about handing us a weapon. Prowl is useful, but Enigma didn’t plan on us actually looking twice at him, and I’m saying we _should_.”

Optimus fixed him with a pensive look. “You sound…” The Prime paused. “Invested.”

“He’s a good mech,” Jazz said, quieter. “We need him.”

“Allowing him into our fold could be a security risk,” Optimus said.

“That’s what we have Red Alert for,” Jazz replied. “He can keep an optic on Prowl. Primus, he probably already is. Nobody can get past Red.”

“Except you.”

“Except me, but I’ll be right next to Prowl, watching him too,” Jazz said. At Optimus’s wary look, he added, “Aw, come on! It’s not like it would be a burden. He’s not exactly hard on the optics.”

Optimus was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he said, “You truly believe in this mech’s ability?”

“Yeah,” Jazz said. “Wouldn’t have come to you with the idea if I didn’t.”

Optimus’s pondering look returned, and Jazz felt his spark rise with hope. “I cannot grant him any rank without a show of skill,” he said. “Ultra Magnus would demote him immediately and accuse me of favoring your mate. He wouldn’t hesitate to accuse you of showing favoritism by suggesting this.”

“So don’t. You still have access to the archives, don’t you?” Jazz said, and Optimus nodded. “Any chance you can grab one of the simulations the Academy used for final examinations in tactics?”

“You said he didn’t complete his tactical training.”

“Yeah, I also said he didn’t _need_ to.”

Jazz had yet to return by the time Prowl re-entered their shared apartment. He still clutched the device – a hard communication link, too rudimentary for any transmission detectors to alert on. The Autobots’ security officer would require the device itself in order to see the message data, and Prowl had no intentions of letting it – his precious last link to Praxus, to Enigma – fall from his servos.

He leaned against the door, locked behind him as though it could protect him from the outside world. He had no idea how many mechs had the access codes to Jazz’s hab-suite. He missed the privacy of having his own place to retreat, to think. Jazz seemed so open, so extroverted; Prowl doubted he understood his need for seclusion. He didn’t want to broach the topic and have it come across like he wanted distance from Jazz himself.

He considered hiding it in the hab-suite, hoping Jazz didn’t go poking around, but he abandoned that thought quickly. If Enigma rang, he needed to respond immediately, or risk his sire’s ire. He finally placed the comm. in his subspace; the Autobots were far more tactile than any bot in Praxus, but they didn’t indicate a willingness to search their own.

Speaking of searching, if Jazz wasn’t to return for a while…

There were quite a few data-pads on his shelves, in vast varieties of topics. Music, poetry, philosophy, sociology. Prowl made mental notes as he scoured the data-pads of ones he would have to read for himself. He was almost certain a few had been banned by the Cybertronian Senate, and found he wasn’t even surprised Jazz had managed to snag a few.

Idly, almost absentmindedly, he began to reorganize the data-pads as he went. Jazz had made no effort so far to hide anything from him, even offering to gather confidential data for him to pour over. Enigma’s set of rooms at the top of the government building in Praxus had been the pinnacle of organization, not a thing ever an inch out of place. Prowl could correctly put up the data-pads from Enigma’s desk according to the Cybertronian Archive Standard before he could understand half the glyphs in them.

He left Jazz’s sundry knickknacks untouched; he didn’t recognize most of them. His data-tracks of music could similarly be rearranged into a vague mimicry of the same archiving standard he used for the data-pads.

He was so invested in his reorganization effort that he failed to hear the door sliding open.

“It seems like you’ve already put him to work,” said the deep baritone of Optimus Prime.

Prowl stood in an instant and turned to face them. Jazz had slipped through the door and was already crossing the room to stand near Prowl, while the Prime hesitated at the entrance, his servos clasped behind his back. Prowl could almost accuse him of being wary of intruding upon Jazz’s space, but he knew how thoughtless that sounded. This was the _Prime_.

Prowl hadn’t considered the fact that maybe Jazz didn’t want his possessions rearranged until now, and he had yet to come up with an excuse for meddling. His vocalizer stalled.

Jazz seemed to notice, and he waved a servo dismissively, too close now for Optimus to see the gesture. “It’s fine,” he said. “This is your space too, now.”

Optimus took a few steps deeper into the room, which brought him nearly halfway across, given his size. He observed the data-shelves with a keen interest. “You know the Archival Standard,” he noted. Prowl could almost fool himself into thinking he sounded impressed.

“All cases handled by the Enforcers were arranged in the filing system deemed most effective,” Prowl said noncommittally.

Optimus looked back to Prowl. “How much of your Enforcer training did you have a chance to complete?” When Prowl stalled, Optimus added, “Jazz told me about your extensive training.”

“I completed my standard Enforcer training in a quarter of the time allotted,” Prowl said. “Commander Enigma thought it best to keep me entertained with further schooling, so I entered the tactical program.”

The Prime wore his battle-mask, but Prowl could sense the frown he wore beneath it. “Was it not your choice to enter the program?”

“I had my choice of which specialty I pursued,” Prowl said. “I chose tactics.”

“How much of your training did you complete?”

“Nearly all of it. I would have graduated next vorn, had I remained in Praxus.” Prowl wasn’t sure, considering he was looking directly at the Prime, but he thought he saw Jazz shift uneasily from the periphery of his vision.

There was something akin to a skeptical glint in the Prime’s optics. “Praxus has extensive standards, and you have completed a vast amount of schooling, despite your youth.”

“What bearing does my age have on my academic capabilities?” Prowl asked in return.

Before the mollified Prime could respond, Jazz spoke up. “Look, sounds like Enigma ran a tight ship. Magnus should have nothing to complain about, after we get all this settled.”

“All _what_ settled?” Prowl asked.

It was Optimus who responded. “There is a terminal set up in the Archives with a standardized tactical exam from the Academy. Should you display an acceptable aptitude, Ultra Magnus and I would be more than happy to have you as part of the Autobot’s command.”

Prowl’s optics widened. His voice remained even as he said, “If you are certain, Prime.”

Optimus’s features softened in the slightest. “Of course.” He gestured to the door. “You will have complete access to the Archives for studying material. Red Alert will keep the terminal secure. Whenever you feel you are ready to take the exam, then—”

“May I take it now?” Prowl asked.

Optimus looked taken aback, but quickly nodded. “Of course. I shall escort you to the Archives myself.”

Jazz’s grin was smug and bright as he fell into step behind the two. Prowl could feel the strong waves of self-satisfaction roiling from his field, wide and open and warm.


	9. The Tactician

Ultra Magnus scowled at the data terminal, the plates of his mouth set into a thin line. Behind him, Jazz retained his smug smile, wide and brilliant in the otherwise dark command room. He hadn’t yet let it falter; he knew Magnus could see him clearly from his periphery. Magnus had insisted on switching off the main lights when he had begun to review each question personally, for the second time, to narrow his focus to ensure he hadn’t missed something.

Jazz looked on with renewed interest as Ultra Magnus scrolled to the last question on the tactical exam – Question 391, Part 1 of 16 – for the third time that cycle. Magnus was glaring at the screen of the terminal so intensely Jazz was honestly surprised it hadn’t cracked yet. Normally Magnus reserved that look for Autobot traitors and, occasionally, Hot Rod.

Normally, Jazz might have snapped earlier, but he had enjoyed watching Magnus attempt to grasp at wires to dismiss the exam, only to find no wires hanging. Magnus wasn’t the sort to miss details. Jazz didn’t think he had ever seen the big mech look over something twice, yet here they were, going on the fourth cycle since the results came in. Magnus was clearly irritated, and Jazz was going to buy Prowl the best high grade in Iacon to thank the mech for making Magnus squirm.

“Done yet?” Jazz hedged. “Or should I say, done _again_?”

“There is a mistake in the programming,” Magnus said. He finally turned around. His optics were ablaze, his scowl unmoving.

Optimus finally looked up from the data-pad he had un-subspaced when Magnus began his second run-through of the entire exam, a wary hope in his optics. “Have you located the bug?” he asked.

“No,” Magnus said, and Optimus visibly deflated.

“There isn’t a bug,” Jazz insisted.

“There has to be.” Magnus glanced at the terminal. “It is not possible for a recruit not fully trained in this area to attain such a score. I could forgive passing with good marks had he been older, but he lacks any sort of experience in this area beyond his studies, which he _did not even graduate from_. And this” – Magnus pointed accusingly at the terminal – “is not _passing with good marks_.”

“No, it’s not,” Jazz agreed. “Looks to me like a perfect score.”

Ultra Magnus turned on him. “Do you find the fact our archival systems have been comprised to be funny, Lieutenant?”

Jazz held up a servo. “No need to be formal, Mags, you can call me Jazz.”

“ _Mags_.” Ultra Magnus looked close to short-circuiting. Or maybe hitting him. It had been a long time since Jazz had seen him this irate.

Luckily, Optimus was there to step between them. “Ultra Magnus,” he began diplomatically, “it would seem Jazz’s assessment of our new companion was correct. It was not as though we were not told this was a likely outcome.”

“This is an impossible outcome!” Magnus snapped. “No recruit at the Academy has ever scored perfect marks on this exam. It was designed to require give and take, to analyze collateral damage. Even the heads of the tactical department, the best of the best on Cybertron, didn’t have such a score.”

“Just because it hasn’t been done before doesn’t make it impossible,” Optimus said.

Magnus glowered at him for a solid klik. Then he turned around and barked, “Teletraan, run another plagiarism check.”

While Magnus scowled at the terminal, Jazz leaned closer to Optimus and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “How much longer are we going to put up with this?”

Optimus looked just as exhausted with the proceedings, but said, “Magnus’s consent is required in order to instate Prowl in Autobot Command.”

“But you’re the Prime. Can’t you overrule him or something?”

“That’s not how this works.”

Well, Jazz wasn’t going to stand there all cycle while Magnus had a slow break-down. No, he was getting out of shouting distance as soon as possible, thank you. And maybe he did want to see his brilliant mate. Maybe. Okay, definitely.

He stepped forward, reaching up to tap Magnus on his wide shoulder. “Mags, look, I get that it sucks to be proven wrong yet again, but it’s time to give it up, mech. We’re all tired of this. Can’t you just back off?”

“When I find out how he altered his results,” Magnus said, voice low, “I fully intend on prosecuting _you_ for aiding him.”

“Whoa now—”

“Ultra Magnus, Jazz.” Optimus pulled Jazz back, taking hold of his flared collar plating and dragging him from Magnus’s shadow like a disobedient youngling. “Perhaps we should wait and discuss this at a later time. Clearly emotional processes have become a bit frazzled after the long cycle.”

“ _No_.” Magnus and Jazz spoke in unison.

Jazz continued before Magnus had a chance. “We need a tactician now. Megatron isn’t going to wait around while we debate this. The Decepticons are moving quickly. The Autobots are smaller; we have less fighters; we need someone to guide us into fighting smarter, not harder. We can’t keep dragging this out.”

“A cheat and a hack will do nothing but run the Autobot forces into the ground,” Magnus retorted.

“He didn’t cheat!” Jazz argued.

“That we know of,” came Magnus’s stoic reply.

Jazz covered his visor with a servo. “Primus,” he bemoaned. “We’re never getting out of this room. This _cell_.”

“Quit your dramatics,” Magnus said, returning his gaze to the terminal. “This was your idea in the first place. Your involvement, I should add, will not go forgotten either.”

“ _My involvement_ ,” Jazz echoed spitefully. “Mags, no offense, but I’ve had better cycles in the Decepticons’ servos.”

Magnus turned on him, and Jazz immediately sensed he had taken things a step too far. “Do you interpret this as a humorous situation?” Magnus asked. “Our archives are possibly in jeopardy. If an outsider can manipulate our data this easily, imagine what the Decepticons are possibly capable of. They could wreck the Autobots from the inside.”

“An outsider,” Jazz echoed. “Mech, you’re starting to sound like those Praxians.”

Optimus interjected, “Magnus, I have spoken with Jazz already about the possible threat the Praxians pose. He is aware of the situation.”

“Aware,” Magnus agreed, “but not taking it with any weight.”

Jazz wanted to agree, wanted to point out that for all he cared, Magnus could shove his theories about Praxus up his aft, but he held his glossa. He’d already gotten under Magnus’s plating. If Magnus thought Jazz was a threat alongside the Praxians… well, he couldn’t punish Jazz, but he could drag Prowl away, and that thought sent Jazz’s spark into a tailspin. Magnus could manipulate the system to make Prowl needed elsewhere, far from Jazz’s side. He told himself it had to be the new bond messing with his processor that made that idea painful down to the core of his spark.

“Not true,” Jazz objected. “I already said I’d keep an optic on Prowl.”

“Useless,” Magnus groused in return. “You’re clearly biased.”

“So are you!” Jazz retorted. “Biased _against_ him!”

Magnus returned to ignoring Jazz, glowering once more at the terminal.

“Magnus, my friend,” Optimus said gently, “I understand your precaution, but this is a tad extreme. We have no evidence to suggest Prowl manipulated anything. Ironhide kept guard at the doors to prevent any entrance or exit; Red Alert monitored the cameras and the screen. His attempt was honest. At some point, you must relent.”

Magnus’s jaw was clenched hard; Jazz thought he could hear the gears grinding together in the heavy silence of the room. He turned to face Optimus, the closest look to defeat in his optics that Jazz had ever seen. Yeah, he was definitely getting Prowl some good high-grade for this. Mech deserved to come down a notch.

He drew in a long vent. “Will you permit me one last test, of my own making, to analyze his performance?”

Optimus frowned. “You are not trained in tactics.”

Magnus mimicked his expression. “I am aware. I planned to use some of Longshot’s old work, to see if the consort comes to the same conclusions as he did.”

Before Optimus could say anything, Jazz butted in. “If he agrees,” Jazz said, “will you put in your vote to make Prowl our tactician?”

“If his conclusions are reasonable in a realistic scenario, then yet.”

Jazz sighed with relief. “ _Finally_. Does that mean we can leave now?”

“No.” Magnus began typing on the terminal, the clicking of the keys drowning out Jazz’s following groan. “I don’t want to give him a chance to acquire any additional information. Longshot’s work is classified, but you, as second, have access to it. He clearly has undue sway over you, so until the conclusion of this test, you will both be under surveillance.”

“ _Undue sway_ ,” Jazz echoed, as Magnus copied the intel given to Longshot at the time of his planning on a data-pad.

Magnus pressed the comm to the outside. “Ironhide, enter.”

Not a moment later, the red mech stepped through the door. Judging from his slouched shoulders, he was just as ready to get out of this situation as Jazz. He took the data-pad Magnus offered him with a frown. “What’s this?”

“The consort’s new exam,” Magnus said, folding his servos behind his back. “It must be completed immediately.”

Ironhide sighed, but stepped back out the door with the data-pad in hand.

Jazz looked back to Optimus. “You got another one of those novels with you?”

Optimus did, and he loaned it to Jazz without a glyph spoken. Magnus returned to going over the results of the Academy’s tactical exam again.

Ironhide returned far sooner than Jazz expected, and far, far too soon for Magnus’s comfort. The big mech all but snatched the data-pad out of the warrior’s servo before Ironhide could say anything. He flicked it on and began scrolling through the results.

Jazz waited while he read, and then reread. Longshot had been the best tactician in the Senate’s security forces before he fell alongside his employers. The Academy had touted their affiliation with him; he had done guest lectures there for vorns during his full-time employment with the Senate. Jazz only met him once, shortly before most of the Senate met their ends at Starscream’s servos, their accomplices dispatched by his trine.

“So that’s the verdict, boss?” Jazz asked. “You ready to call it quits yet?”

All Magnus said was, “This is _not_ the plan Longshot formulated.”

Jazz felt his spark begin to sink.

“Longshot failed to account for certain variables,” came Prowl’s voice from the doorway. Ironhide shifted to the side, revealing the Praxian behind him, his servos folded behind his back and doorwings held aloft. His chevron glistened, a stark red silhouette against the white light streaming in from the Archives.

Magnus up the data-pad. “I asked you for _a_ battle plan. There are eight different plans following first contact.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Prowl said. “I attempted to account for all of the most likely outcomes.”

“Three end in retreat, two in Autobot defeat,” Magnus began. Jazz recognized the sound of the beginning of a long tirade and almost sank down in his seat next to Optimus, seeing as they would clearly be there for a while. Prowl’s voice, however, cut the commander off.

“You greatly overestimate the Autobots’ ability to fight Megatron head-on.” When Magnus didn’t immediately overtake him, he continued, “The Autobots are a conglomeration of various models from across Cybertron. Megatron’s forces are primarily war-builds, gladiators, miners, and other hard-laborers. In an evenly matched battle, his forces would still outweigh and outclass the Autobots. Rather than attempt to rebuild the Autobots to fight on Megatron’s terms, it would make more sense to focus what resources you do have on _outmaneuvering_ him.”

Before Magnus could say anything, Optimus spoke. “And how would you suggest doing so?”

“Invest more in attaining resources before Megatron can claim them,” Prowl said, looking at the Autobot leader. “Focus on gaining intelligence to avoid confronting his troops in head-on combat. The Autobots can blend in more easily than war-builds. The goal would not be to defeat Megatron in combat, but to prevent battles from taking place to begin with, through whatever subterfuge or sabotage is necessary.”

Jazz couldn’t help but say, “Never thought I’d hear a Praxian advocating sabotage.” He also couldn’t help the hope that began to arise in his spark.

Prowl fixed him with a level look. “It’s only logical,” he said.

“And the operatives?” Optimus asked. Jazz felt pinpricks beneath his armor as he gauged Prowl’s reaction carefully.

The Praxian didn’t hesitate, nor did he look back to Jazz in any secret acknowledgement. “The Autobots still have access to what remains of the Senate’s resources. While many assets fell with the Senators, there are inevitably some still left.”

Jazz thought he saw Optimus glance at him before he spoke next. “If you entered the fold of High Command,” Optimus said to Prowl, “you would not be given access to the personal information of our operatives. Only Jazz, myself, and Ultra Magnus are privy to that.”

Luckily, Prowl had an answer ready for that too, so Jazz didn’t have to hold his vents long.

“I’m not interested in their personal lives; in fact, you can keep a majority of their files classified,” Prowl said. “So long as I have a few past missions and their results to go off of, I can accurately determine their skillset and where they would be best used.”

Jazz felt like a weight had come off his spark. The data-pad remained clenched in his servos as his processor spun with the idea that Prowl could always find him out some other way. Maybe he too could give Red Alert’s security systems a run for their shanix. Maybe he would think to compare his new conjunx’s past with the dates on some of those files. Jazz would have to ask Red about sealing his records completely; the large gaps from going missing didn’t fit with the work of a ‘cultural investigator’. He could say it was because he was high command, because he had worked for the Senate for so long. Prowl hadn’t yet seemed the sort to pry.

Optimus’s gaze switched to Magnus. “Well?” he said. “Have you determined your answer yet?”

The last time Jazz had seen Magnus look this defeated, he had been told Hot Rod was halfway across the galaxy with his personal shuttle.

“Yes,” he ground out.

Concerned about his secret life or not, Jazz couldn’t help but feel proud when Optimus looked back to Prowl and said, “Then welcome to Autobot High Command, Prowl.”

Prowl dipped his head. “Thank you, Prime.”

Optimus gestured to Magnus. “Ultra Magnus will help you set up a terminal on which to work. Red Alert will begin working on decrypting files you are permitted to use. Once everything is prepared, you may return to your hab-suite and report during alpha shift next cycle.”

Another nod. “Understood, Prime.”

“Prowl, you may call me Optimus.”

“Acknowledged, Prime.”

Jazz had the wide, smug grin of a mad-mech still plastered on his faceplates when Prowl bowed out of the room alongside Ultra Magnus. Ironhide trailed a step behind them. Jazz waited until the automatic doors slid shut behind the trio before he let the guise slip away.

Silence permeated the room. Optimus broke it first. “He will not find out anything about you,” Optimus promised. “I’ll contact Red Alert as soon as we depart.”

“Won’t it look suspicious?” Jazz asked. “He thinks I played music and did research for the Senate. Why would my records be sealed?”

“The Senate fought to keep many of their activities under wraps,” Optimus said. “It would not be out of the ordinary for them to needlessly classify information.”

“And what if he finds it anyway?” Jazz questioned. “What if Red Alert misses something, or he just pieces it together himself?” His gaze dropped to the floor. “Maybe I just tell him myself.”

He felt the unease in Optimus’s field. “I cannot recommend that,” said Optimus slowly. “With our relations with Praxus so dubious, and the bond so new, now would not be the time to reveal catastrophic secrets. I believe it would be best to wait, and gather investment.”

“You want me to string him along with lies so, what?” Jazz said. “So he won’t leave me? Go back to Praxus? He didn’t exactly want to be here in the first place.”

“So he won’t leave the Autobots,” Optimus replied. “You were right. We need a tactician, and Prowl seems to be the best. It would be in our best interest to keep him in our corner.”

“Gotta be honest, mech, I never pegged you as the manipulative type.”

Optimus shifted his weight between his pedes. “Praxus is… sheltered,” he said. “I want Prowl to have a chance to observe other parts of Cybertron before he makes a decision on whether or not to go back.”

Optimus could repeat it until his vocalizer shorted out, but Jazz knew the truth; he had played this game before. The longer they kept Prowl in Iacon, with the Autobots, the more connections he would make, and the harder it would be to sever them if the time came. If Prowl wanted to leave now, there would be no internal debate about it; he had nothing to leave behind in Iacon. But once he did, once there were things to keep him here even if he hated Jazz, then the Autobots had a chance.

It made Jazz’s fuel tanks churn. It wasn’t the first time he had been told to integrate a bot into Iacon for a purpose like this – far from it, really – but the fact that his new target was his conjunx made him feel… dirty.

From a logical standpoint, it would be easy. Enigma seemed manipulative; Gunner seemed overbearing; Prowl’s brother was now gone and, judging from their lack of appearance, his carrier was deactivated. All Jazz had to do was forge some bonds in Iacon that, if forced to leave them behind, would break Prowl’s spark as much as leaving Enigma would. He’d successfully brought in mechs with far better places to return to before.

Jazz really wanted to buy Prowl that high grade now, for as much of a congratulations on breaking Magnus as it was an apology for everything he had done, and everything he was going to do.

“Jazz?” Optimus broached.

“Ironhide would be a good start,” Jazz said slowly. Optimus’s helm dipped slightly in a nod for him to continue. “Gunner – Prowl’s guard back in Praxus – didn’t seem like the sort who was really on Prowl’s side. ’Hide’s loyal. If we put him in a similar position to Gunner, where Prowl will start to compare them, he’ll want to choose Ironhide over Gunner.”

“As a guard?” Optimus confirmed.

Jazz shrugged. “He’s going to make enemies as tac head. Some mechs already don’t like him because he’s Praxian. Others are going to want to use him because he’s just a pretty pair of wings. Ironhide ought to be able to scare them all off.”

Optimus nodded once more. “I will inform Ironhide he is oversee Prowl’s safety. Any other insights you care to implement?”

Jazz had a few in his repertoire; on any other bot, he wouldn’t hesitate to put them in place. But this was his conjunx. His spark sank at the thought of treating him like just another mission to complete, of seeing his spark – the one now connected to Jazz’s – as a mere object that needed to be set right.

“No,” Jazz said monotonously, “but I’ll let you know if I think of anything.” He wouldn’t.

“Good. Thank you.”

“No problem, mech. It’s my job, right?”


	10. The Thanks

Prowl couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of homesickness that wrenched his spark at the sight of the data terminal in front of him. The automatic lights in the small office had switched on the moment Ultra Magnus buzzed open the door. Currently, he was droning on about the security measures their director had put in place around the office – no doubt a subtle warning to Prowl – and Prowl half-listened.

“That is all you need to know,” Ultra Magnus said, and Prowl recognized his tone of finality. He sounded so much like Enigma sometimes; it was uncanny. “I expect you to be not a moment late for alpha shift. Association with Lieutenant Jazz will not permit you any favors.”

With that, Ultra Magnus stalked out of the room, his plating still flared as he entered the halls.

Ironhide, leaned against the doorway with his pedes and servos both crossed, cocked an optical ridge at the Magnus’s disappearing form. “Huh. I’m starting to think he likes you. Must have made an impression.”

Prowl looked to him. “That was liking me?”

He barked a laugh, loud and raucous. “Ah, no! He hates you. You’re getting under his plating more effectively than Hot Rod.”

So he was one of _those_ , then. “I haven’t done anything,” Prowl said.

“Exactly. Mags hates idlers.”

“He fully intended to shelve me like an unimportant object,” Prowl replied coolly. He was familiar with the look, the attitude; it was the same one Enigma had directed at him for vorns. “I do not idle well.” A lesson Enigma had inevitably had to learn, and so would this Ultra Magnus, in quick time.

Ironhide’s joyful expression at the Magnus’s upset faded away. He looked like he wanted to say something, but hesitated. Prowl took in his guarded stature, his open expression, and immediately determined him to be a front-liner. No mech in special operations or information services would be so open with their emotions. He would have been annoyed by it in Praxus; here, it almost came as a relief.

“Magnus will come around,” Ironhide finally said. “Just give him some time. He smarts bad when it turns out he’s wrong about something.”

“And you believe he was wrong?” Prowl ventured.

All Ironhide said was, “You’re not an object.”

Prowl couldn’t identify what the feeling that arose in his spark was. Breaking his gaze from Ironhide’s, he took one last look around the small, empty office, the single terminal screen glowing a brilliant blue.

“I would like to return to Jazz’s quarters now,” he said, and Ironhide only nodded.

* * *

Jazz had not come home when Prowl arrived. To his embarrassment, he realized he did not know the code to unlock the door. As he turned to Ironhide to ask, the screen in his periphery suddenly flashed green, and the sound of a lock undoing clicked in the otherwise silent hall.

Ironhide laughed as Prowl fixed the lock with an incredulous look. “Red’s found out about Jazz’s latest hacking, then,” he said.

While Jazz had not yet returned, he had been by the quarters. A single data-pad sat on the now-empty table by the couch. Prowl flicked it on and found Jazz had done as he promised, giving Prowl unfettered access to all the information the Autobots had on the Decepticons. The communication device in his subspace suddenly felt a lot heavier as he read.

Prowl paced the room to rid himself of the nervous energy as he perused through the data. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed; there wasn’t a visible timepiece anywhere in the rooms. Only the sound of the door sliding open once more alerted him to the passage of the joors.

He glanced up at Jazz, flicked a wing in greeting, and returned to the mission report on the screen. A moment later, it occurred to him that no, Jazz didn’t have wings, likely didn’t understand wing-speak, and probably thought Prowl was purposely ignoring him. An irrational amount of upset crashed over his spark.

Before he could turn around and attempt to repair the perceived damage, arms wrapped around his back, servos clasped in front of him. The front of Jazz’s frame settled against his wings, a welcoming warm and heavy pressure that caught Prowl off guard. A chin nestled on his shoulder, vents brushing against his plating. Lip-plates brushed lightly across the cables of his neck, and he tilted his helm to give further access without consciously processing doing so. Jazz was so warm, so sturdy. Prowl felt as though his frame began to melt against his plating.

“And good evening to you as well,” Prowl murmured, conscious of Jazz’s audial horn, so close to his own lips. It would have been easy to plant a kiss there, against the most sensitive sensors Jazz sported. But Prowl hesitated, and Jazz brought his helm up to press their helms side-to-side.

“You already said that,” Jazz noted.

Prowl jolted, but Jazz’s grip around his middle didn’t falter, nor did it allow for much movement. “You know wing-speak?”

“I picked up a little during some trips to Vos,” Jazz said. Prowl’s expression diminished, but before he could argue, Jazz continued, “Yeah, I know it’s not the same as Praxian doorwing-speak, but a few gestures are universal, yeah?”

“I suppose,” Prowl relented.

“’Course, you could always teach me some Praxian doorwing-speak. Wouldn’t mind staring at these for joors.” An exhaled vent bathed the edge of one doorwing in warmth. Sensors zapped across Prowl’s entire frame.

Prowl struggled to find a response. His brain module was lost in the flood of feedback. “Its gestures can be very minute,” he said. “Part of understanding is intrinsic, reliant upon early socialization with other winged Cybertronians.”

Jazz’s lip-plates found their way to the back of his neck. He hummed noncommittally, the vibration cascading down Prowl’s back-struts and nearly unlocking his knees beneath him from the overwhelming sensory input that followed. He felt that hum to the tips of his doorwings. “You make that sound so much sexier than Skyfire did.”

Prowl’s vocalizer shorted out before he could even begin to try to put together a response to that.

Jazz’s chin came back to rest on his shoulder. “I do mean that,” he said. “I like learning about places, cultures, languages – all that. I was actually pretty good at my job before… all this.”

Prowl had seen the extensive collections Jazz owned and didn’t doubt that. He had music from all across Cybertron, even a few colonies. His data-pads were in a myriad of languages, both Cybertronian and organic. The vast amount of what appeared to be souvenir-shop gifts scattered across his shelves suggested a love of traveling and appreciation of the destinations. No one with an unfavorable attitude toward exploration would invest so many credits and so much time and space to it. If it was a ruse, a cover explanation, then Jazz truly had nothing to his name to call his own.

If he couldn’t return to Praxus, perhaps he could bring a bit of Praxus here. Jazz would listen; he had made a career out of doing it. He was well aware that Praxus – especially with its staunch neutrality in the coming war – had earned the ire of many outsiders. He liked to think Jazz would be able to talk about the culture and separate it from the politics. If he couldn’t, then the topic would drive a wedge between them, something Prowl had so carefully tried to avoid creating.

“Outsiders don’t much like it,” Prowl said quietly.

“But I like you,” Jazz replied easily.

Really, the way that set his spark aflutter was wrong. Prowl couldn’t squash the warm feeling creeping through his frame from his chassis. The rhythm of his vents altered. Prowl could feel the whirring of Jazz’s open spark against his spinal struts, a pleasant hum that spread across the sensors of his doorwings. Even without such advanced sensors, Jazz must have been able to perceive the uptake in the spin of Prowl’s spark.

Prowl pulled away from his grip, and Jazz allowed it, just far enough to turn around to face him. This time, he closed the distance between their chests until they were spark to spark. Prowl could feel the resonance of his bond-mate’s spark sliding into sync with his own. It was unusual, Prowl noted, in the back of his processors, for a spark sync to remain for so long this early in a bonding.

“I believe thanks are in order,” Prowl said, “for my introduction to your Prime.”

Jazz laughed. “I think he likes you. Guess I’m lucky I got to you first, or he’d have been on his knees begging to court you the minute he found out you knew the Archival Standard.”

Prowl hummed noncommittally. “He’s not my type,” he said. There was something about him. He wasn’t similar to Enigma, but he was similar enough. He was Enigma-adjacent, and that was enough to make Prowl wary of getting too close. He had plenty of webs already entangling him.

Jazz’s smile was playful. “Any chance your type includes visored mechs? Audial horns? Some of the sleekest plating this side of Cybertron? Asking for a friend, of course.”

“I’m afraid your friend is out of luck,” Prowl responded. “It seems my type is verbose cultural investigators with an aversion to proper data-pad organization.”

It was somewhat amazing, how quickly Jazz’s faceplates could morph from playful to smug. “Is it really? Guess I’ll have to keep that in mind.”

“Oh, please do. It would be a right shame if I had to entertain the Prime’s company instead,” Prowl said.

“So, Prime’s on the short list. Got it. And then there’s probably Mags, and— ah, slag.”

“What?”

“Meant to get us some real good-quality high-grade. It’s not just any bot that can irritate Magnus more than even Hot Rod and— _oh_.”

Prowl had dropped to his knees in front of Jazz, his face-plate hovering at just the right height to meet Jazz’s primary interface cover. He leaned forward, his vents exhaling hot air across the quickly-heating panels. Above him, Jazz cursed, something creative in a language Prowl didn’t understand. Slowly, unsurely, he pressed his lip-plates against the warm metal in a faux kiss.

The sound of said panels transforming back greeted his audials. The spiral casing of Jazz’s spike housing brushed lightly across his mouth as the mech above him shifted. Tentatively, he let his glossa lick a stripe across the spike housing. Jazz’s engine growled loudly in response. His spike began to pressure against Prowl’s lip-plates, extending quickly to full length. Prowl ran his mouth from the base to the pointed tip, before slipping his glossa out to lap experimentally at the head.

The noise of Jazz’s engine was deafening, this close to his audials. Nevertheless, Prowl heard the hitch in his vents as his glossa trailed along the slit, then licked down to the first ridge. He raised his doorwings at his back, an open invitation. His servos rose to Jazz’s sleek thighs.

“Hey— what you said before, ‘bout thanks?” Jazz’s voice nearly tripped into static. “This isn’t some sort of— of payback, right? For Prime and the exam and all that?”

Prowl’s only response was to wrap his lips around the tip of Jazz’s spike.

The mixed taste of charge and transfluid was… odd. Nothing like Prowl had expected. From the way he had heard Praxians speak of sucking spike, he had braced for an unpleasant, inescapable sensation. It was certainly different, but it hardly warranted such an extreme reaction. Curiously, he sucked at the tip, drawing the beading transfluid at the tip into his intake. Above him, Jazz groaned, a shudder passing through his whole frame from pede to helm; Prowl’s servos on his thighs picked up the tremor, as well as the unceasing vibrations from an overworking engine.

“Frag,” Jazz muttered. Had his lip-plates not been stretched around a spike, Prowl could have smiled at the static lacing his voice.

He inched a little further down Jazz’s spike, until his lip-plates met the first ridge. A quick investigation proved the ridges aided in sucking, and judging from the static-laden noises that escaped Jazz’s vocalizer, he fully approved of those findings. The biolights lining Jazz’s array were bright, almost blindingly so, and Prowl dimmed his optics to better his concentration on his current task – bringing Jazz to overload with his mouth.

“You ever done this before?” Jazz asked.

Prowl couldn’t help but roll his optics and didn’t deign that with a response. He wasn’t permitted to be alone with any mech outside of his family and it was an imprisonable offense in Praxus to touch one of the princes, but as for getting on his knees and sucking spike? Sure, anytime he felt like it.

Prowl pushed the thoughts from his processor and continued with his slow, studious exploration, diligently tracing every ridge with his glossa and making note of what had Jazz’s vocalizer spitting staticky expletives. He was certainly a responsive lover, much to Prowl’s pleased surprise. He directed Prowl needlessly, saying “Right there” or “do that again”, as if Prowl was going to deviate from his goal of mapping his spike just to let him overload there. No, if Prowl was going to take charge and use his mouth, he was going to do so knowing every variable.

Prowl took his time, drawing back after each new reaction to explore from the tip-down again, testing the repeatability of what he had noted. Jazz cursed each time he started to pull off, leaving trails of cool oral lubricant in his wake. His sensors picked up a servo hesitating just behind his helm, a wire’s width away from touching. Part of him wanted to stop, to wait for Jazz to take control of his helm with a firm grip and push him where he wanted him. But then, the point of this was to do it _for_ Jazz, not make him play the lead yet again.

A pressure at the back of his intake as he reached toward the next ridge forced him to pause. Jazz’s spike had reached his throat tubing. He had quite a bit left to go before his lip-plates were snug against Jazz’s pelvic plating. He couldn’t simply stop here, simply continue on with dozens of potential variables undiscovered. It wasn’t as though his throat tubing couldn’t take a spike; however uncomfortable or unusual it seemed, it was physically possible to get a spike into that tight tubing. And what was it Roundabout used to say, when Prowl’s explanations of his patrol misdeeds got particularly wordy? _“I can’t wait until someone frags your vocalizer out.”_ Hardly a possible outcome if a spike didn’t go further than his intake.

Prowl minutely edged forward before leisurely pulling back, processor spinning. Slowly working the spike into the tubing would be longer work; the hinges of his jaw were already aching, and taking too long would diminish his ability to create sufficient suction.

He took the spike in deep before he could think too much about the consequences of this alternative. Hesitation only delayed the inevitable. He barely felt the breach as the tip of the spike pushed beyond the cavity of his intake and into the tight tubing of his throat, but he couldn’t ignore the burn in his throat calipers after. Jazz’s response was a staticky, “ _Frag_ , Prowler!” and the servo that had lurked behind his helm finally came to rest on it.

He stopped before trying to go another ridge down. His vents spun on high, as did Jazz’s, judging from the sound. He hadn’t yet seen his mate transform into his alt. mode, but the sleek armor had been suggestive of a speedster model and now, hearing the unrepentant roar of a powerful racing engine, Prowl confirmed that theory. Oral lubricants built up in his intake and seeped out from behind his taut lip-plates. Prowl realized, not a few moments too late, that this was going to end up a lot messier than he expected.

Prowl drew back again, no longer bothering to map his way back across erogenous zones already accounted for. Jazz’s servo, heavy on the back of his helm, still let him move freely. He tongued the slit at the tip, wiping clean what transfluid had since leaked forward, before sliding back down. He tasted his own oral lubricants, combined with the sapidity he already associated with Jazz. This time, he felt the breach as the tip of his spike pushed beyond the entrance to his throat tubing, forcefully parting the snug calipers in its way. It was as though his calipers were straining to constrict enough to keep the intrusion out, but obligated to give way nonetheless.

He began to build up a rhythm, dividing his attention equally between deepening how far he took Jazz’s spike and the care he gave to the tip, which Jazz seemed to have a particular fondness for. His engine had stuttered hard when Prowl had closed his intake tight around the tip and sucked the building bud of transfluid from the slit. The servo on the back of Prowl’s helm pressed harder, threatening to push him deeper onto the spike. Prowl allowed it, once he had stroked his glossa teasingly over the head once more. Jazz didn’t guide him so much as merely push him back onto his spike before giving Prowl free rein again.

Prowl continued to work himself deeper, ignoring the ache in the hinges of his jaw and the burning through his throat tubing as the delicate mesh was forced to give way again and again. The moans from Jazz’s vocalizer, and his servo resting on the back of Prowl’s helm, spurred him on.

Prowl’s visual fields nearly whited out when Jazz’s servo fastened around the edge of his chevron. His vocalizer attempted to cry out Jazz’s designation, but only muffled static sounded out. The servo guiding his helm began to add pressure, pushing the spike deeper into his intake, though the grip on his chevron served as a far better motivator to comply. Jazz easily set a faster rhythm to Prowl’s movements. Oral lubricants dribbled from the edge of Prowl’s lip-plates; the tang of Jazz’s transfluid became stronger, smeared across his glossa by Jazz’s thrusts.

Jazz’s grip on his helm became less steady, his movements less rhythmic, until he finally pulled Prowl back to rest his spike in his intake, the position held by Jazz’s unwavering grasp on his chevron. Prowl’s glossa flitted around the tip, barely reacquainted before a wave of hot transfluid flooded his intake. Prowl struggled to swallow, between the surge of fluid and Jazz’s abortive thrusts and his wholly uncooperative throat tubing. Some of it leaked past his lip-plates to trickle down his chin.

Jazz’s spike was slick with Prowl’s oral lubricants and his own transfluid but still fully pressurized. Prowl prepared to slowly work it back into his throat, perhaps make better use of his glossa this time around, but Jazz pulled his helm back from his chevron before he could get past the second ridge.

“Gimme a klik,” Jazz said, voice nearly lost under the whirr of his vents.

Prowl swiped an escaping drop of transfluid from his lip-plates and cleaned the digit with a flick of his glossa. Better in his mouth than drying somewhere on his plating. Above him, Jazz issued another creative curse.

The servo on his helm fell down to grip his shoulder plating, an insistent pressure driving him back onto his pedes. The cables in his legs had gone weak. He struggled to rise to his pedes, to get his shaking knees to lock beneath him. Jazz’s arms wrapped around his middle, pulling them flush together, chassis to chassis, alleviating the need to stand on his own. Prowl was torn between embarrassment at struggling to stand and something strong and warm that pulsed in his spark at Jazz’s immediate support.

He was loath to return to his knees once again, the floor a cold memory compared to the searing heat of Jazz’s plating, pressed tight against his own. Standing him up was an illogical action. Prowl, ever so minutely, tried to pull away. “You’re still pressurized,” he said, as an explanation.

Jazz’s response was simply to connect their lip-plates in a soft kiss.

Prowl’s spark felt as though it had fallen straight through his chassis. He pulled back, much more insistently this time, a servo pushing against Jazz’s chassis. Jazz’s grip loosened but didn’t falter completely. “What?” he said.

Prowl was nearly frozen. “You kissed me.”

“It’s not exactly the first time.” Jazz had the audacity to look confused.

“I—” What was he supposed to say? “I’m unclean.”

“Ya look fine to me. Real good, actually.” Jazz cast an appreciative look across his frame, hesitating not-so-subtly on his doorwings.

Prowl bit his lip-plates; he could still taste Jazz. “I had you in my mouth, and you—” He gestured to Jazz’s own faceplates.

Realization overtook Jazz’s expression. The glow of his visor shifted to a softer light. “I don’t mind, Prowler,” he said. A lecherous grin quickly returned. “In fact, if we head over to the berth, I’ll show ya _just how much_ I don’t mind kissing ya.”


	11. The Nightmare

The Siege of Petrex had been the first real stalemate of the war.

The Decepticons had maintained a hold over the city-state ever since Megatron first began his inflammatory writings. His revolutionaries had been all but outrightly welcomed beyond the stone walls encircling it. It made sense, then, for Optimus to focus his first spec ops mission as Prime there. Jazz hadn’t been Optimus’ first choice, but he was the Council’s, and so early on, Optimus wasn’t ready to risk standing against them.

“I have an uneasy feeling about this mission,” Optimus had said to him, atop the Senate building where he knew he could find the saboteur. Iacon was cold and blue, deep in the throes of Cybertronian winter, but Jazz didn’t think it was the weather that had Optimus’ plating clamped so closely to his frame.

“That just means your processor’s still working right,” Jazz replied. “If this was something easy, they wouldn’t be sending spec ops.”

There was silence for a long moment, or, as close to silent as Iacon could get. The wind whistled and howled with a ferocity indicative of a coming storm, and there were no buildings taller than the Senate’s to shield them from its bite. Optimus Prime had his arms crossed in front of his chassis, his battle-mask withdrawn and optics observing the distant, twinkling light of the city. Jazz couldn’t reconcile the image before him with the one of a Prime.

“I don’t like the idea of _you_ going,” Optimus admitted. The wind nearly snatched his words away. He didn’t look back to Jazz when he spoke.

Jazz didn’t have it in him to feel offended. Orion Pax had probably been the closest thing he had to a friend. He spent so much time in distant places with fake designations; those long night cycles in the Archives, aided in his endless research by a plucky archivist who towered over him, had been the best reprieve he ever received. Orion Pax was far too kind, far too naïve. He had looked at a broken gladiator and tried to befriend him. He had perched himself loyally at Jazz’s side and helped him research the weaknesses of groups that would coincidentally fall apart not long after.

Jazz took in a deep vent. “Well, I don’t like the idea of sending someone who won’t get the job done. Don’t think we have time to play favorites.”

Any objections Optimus tried to make, the Council quelled. Jazz pretended not to know about them. He made himself scarce at the Archives, where Optimus still haunted the empty halls. He left for Petrex without saying farewell.

Petrex made its name as a trading output and had grown into a collective marketplace for goods both foreign and domestic on Cybertron. It had little government of which to speak. Its gates remained steadfastly open, its stone walls decorated with advertisements and slogans, some in languages even Jazz didn’t recognize. He took on the guise of an enthralled shopper, spending some Senator’s coin on frivolous alien goods and outrageous tips for street performers.

It didn’t take him long to find the Decepticons once he located the arms dealers. The lower levels of Petrex were dark and crumbling. Memorabilia from the Pits of Kaon lined the carts of vendors. Illegal mods were easy to come by. Counterfeit Enforcer badges and forged identifications sold like souvenirs. Jazz had found a few of his favorite viruses down these broken streets. He never made any contacts among the black-market dealers; they came and went quickly and quietly, vanishing with as little a trace as they had before they arrived.

It was a bit of a surprise when he did recognize one. The lights running along the ceiling above his cart had flickered out, but his bright red optics and garish yellow paint were hard to miss in this otherwise grey place. He had little around him to draw in buyers; the purple badge stamped proudly across his chest probably drove away the few who might creep closer.

“Hard to find a decent blaster around here,” Jazz noted.

There was a lecherous smile on the mech’s faceplates. “We got good buyers,” he said. “Don’t need to worry about little sales anymore.”

Arsenal didn’t seem to recognize Jazz. Then again, last time Jazz had seen him, he’d been half-dead on circuit boosters and Jazz had liberated him of a few acid pellet rifles, so it was probably for the best.

“And how much does one hired gun go for these days?” Jazz asked.

Bless the hard-headed fragger, he led Jazz right to the Decepticons’ base. And bless that aft-head who took one look at Jazz, grinned like a mechanimal, and asked what his “number” was.

“My number?” echoed Jazz.

“Yeah. How many mechs you’ve killed.”

“Lost count,” Jazz said, honestly, and the mech let him right in.

It didn’t take him long to get the designations of the big mechs in charge. A few he recognized from time he spent in Kaon and Tarn. There was a Vosian seeker sans his wings. They had put together an impressive battalion, armed to the dentae with weapons both Cybertronian and off world. Pointblank had shown off the armory to Jazz and a few others straggling bounty hunters who had wandered into their midst. They were quick to take up arms in the Decepticons’ favor.

Petrex didn’t have Enforcers – not real ones, anyway. It began as, and still operated like, a trading post, rather than a functioning city-state. Various merchants controlled the areas, their hired guns patrolling their streets. Most lacked any training but made up for it with a heavy build and reinforced armor. But not even armor made by Primus himself could withstand the sheer number the Decepticons had against Petrex, even if it managed to unify within a few cycles.

Jazz waited until Pointblank sent him to patrol the outer walls in search of a deserter to call back to Iacon. It was a relatively short conversation.

“We must attack immediately,” the Senator from Metrix said. “We cannot allow them to take Petrex; it has far too many funds to contribute to the Decepticon war effort.”

“I can have my city’s elite Enforcers there within a cycle,” Shadowcast said.

“My militia can be there in half a cycle,” added Saberstorm.

Corresponding sentiments fell from the vocalizers of half the council.

“Wait.” Optimus’ baritone cut off the cacophony. As he stepped into view of the call, Jazz nudged the helm of the offline deserter out of the periphery. “We cannot attack Petrex. The Decepticons will fall back within the walls, with a city of hostages to bargain with.”

“Half of them are off-worlders anyhow,” Python said. “What does it matter?”

Optimus looked aghast as other senators echoed his sentiment. “There are innocent Cybertronians within those walls,” he said. “Cybertronians from _your_ city-states. You cannot allow them to perish like cannon fodder in an all-out assault on Petrex.”

“I would rather have a dozen dead Mithrans than one living Decepticon sympathizer,” said Razorwing.

Optimus glanced between them. “ _Jazz_ is still there,” he said. His normally quaint baritone was quickly rising in volume. “You sent him there. You have an obligation to get him out.”

“Prime—” Ironhide attempted to interject.

Optimus silenced him with a look that even Jazz found impressive. Ironhide’s exasperated plea switched to Jazz.

“Orion.” Optimus paused, his gaze flickering to the staticky image of Jazz. “I’ll be fine. Always am. You worry about the ‘Cons, not me.”

“Jazz.” Saberstorm spoke up. “Deactivate as many of their weapons as you can. I will not have my forces mowed down before we even breach the city walls.”

“And when will he get out?” Optimus countered, before Jazz could affirm his orders. “You plan to lay siege in less than one cycle. There is one entrance to Petrex, and the gates lock at night. If he enters again, he’ll be trapped inside.”

“ _Orion_ ,” Jazz said again, more insistently this time. “I’ve gotten out of worse bolt-holes than this. Promise.”

But Optimus had been right. It didn’t matter how many of the weapons Jazz deactivated; the Decepticons still had the impenetrable walls. The moment the blasting started, the Cons retreated inward, the gates locking behind them and in front of the Petrexians. Autobot forces encircled the walls from the outside. The mortar rounds that crashed down over Petrex didn’t discriminate between those wearing a purple badge and those with bare chasses. Jazz did what he could, but it seemed he spent more time digging through rubble than shooting Decepticons in the back.

What little recharge he managed to get was easily broken. One night cycle found him roused from recharge, holding a blaster pointed at Rattrap’s helm.

“Put that away,” the mech said, inching forward. “I come bearing _gifts_.”

Jazz lowered the blaster, but didn’t take his digit off the trigger.

Rattrap reached inside his subspace and drew out three small, rectangular boxes. “Straight from the Iaconian Academy of Science and Tech. Yours, on behalf of your friends in the Council.”

“Didn’t think I had those.”

“The new Prime has advocated relentlessly on your behalf,” Rattrap said. “I think they’ve grown tired of his yammering.”

 _Damn_ Orion Pax. The last thing a new Prime needed was the Council on his back-struts. Jazz made a note to keep a closer optic on Optimus’s dissenters. He had no spark-break when Sentinel passed, but the idea of Optimus fading to the Well – thanks to his own side, nonetheless – was intolerable.

Jazz picked up of the rectangular boxes, not missing how Rattrap flinched as he inspected it. “What are these?”

“Bombs,” Rattrap said. “We can’t keep tossing mortars at the Cons and waiting for them to toss some back. That wall needs to go, and these things are strong enough to take it out, and then some. All you have to do is plant them, and come next dawn cycle, Saberstorm will activate them.”

Jazz paused. Most of the blasts had hit the city’s center, since shooting down the wall was nigh impossible. The Decepticons had taken up far back from the wall, needing the room to launch their own projectiles over. Between the two, under the shelter of the wall, the civilians had holed up, shielded from the back and forth. Even if these only brought down one section, the sheer size of Petrex’s population meant it would take at least a cycle to evacuate, more if he planned on getting the civilians out of the line of the melee fighting that would ensue.

“No,” Jazz said. “No, I need more time. There’re civs under the wall.”

Rattrap shrugged, rising back to his pedes. “Tough slag for them, isn’t it? Shouldn’t have let the ‘Cons in.” He tossed a device onto Jazz’s make-shift berth. “That’s to arm them. No later than first light.”

“No, tell Saberstorm—”

“No can do, boss. Good luck.”

Rattrap vanished into the smoky streets, dentae gleaming, before Jazz could consider giving chase. The little slagger had probably taken up in a hidey-hole too small for Jazz to enter to wait this whole thing out.

Jazz didn’t remember much about setting the bombs, but he remembered the quick retreat he made as the sky began to purple. Bots hadn’t begun to rouse from recharge yet, giving him free rein to speed through the crumbling streets. He stepped carefully over slumbering forms, silent as a ghost. The backs of the bombs stuck to the metal walls with a barely audible click, so insignificant, Jazz thought, compared to what would come.

He cleared out the moment the last one was set. The few bots pacing the streets paid him no mind; after all, he was far from a war-build like the Decepticons holed up in the city center or the Autobot soldiers stationed outside. He kept the activator in his servos as the faintest purple light began to slash through the sky above. A part of him hoped it would slip from his grip, fall and shatter on the pavement like glass. But some selfish, horrible part of him kept his grip steady, because he knew he would rather collapse those walls on nameless civilians than see the last bots who actually saw something worthwhile in him deactivate on the field outside. There weren’t many of those left.

Jazz didn’t stop moving until he was nearly in the center of the city, not far from the Cons’ encampment. The shorter, stockier buildings were unlikely to collapse in the aftershocks. Any spreading debris would be well away from him.

The quiet should have clued him in to something going wrong.

“Meister? What are you doing?”

Pointblank stood in the shadows of a building half beneath the street. Even then, he stood nearly optic-level with Jazz. His faceplates were graying beneath his optics. Jazz didn’t think the inexperienced leader would last long whether or not he went through with Saberstorm’s plan, but he did have half a dozen mechs in his shadow ready to take his place.

A blue light began to tint the sky, barely visible behind the smoky clouds becoming more apparent as the light levels increased.

Jazz hefted the activator. “Sorry, mech,” he said. “You chose a bad city to collect your armaments in.”

Jazz saw the lenses in Pointblank’s optics spiral and dilate. His optical ridges creased downward. “The walls—” he began.

“—are a liability.”

“A…” His optics cycled one last time before realization struck him. Jazz heard his weapons systems roar to life subconsciously. “No—”

Jazz hit the button.

“No!” Pointblank howled. He lunged at Jazz, at the same moment a deafening quake roared through the city. Jazz activated his vibro-blade the instant he saw Pointblank’s cables tense. The knife materialized in his servo, coming up to block his chassis as he twisted out of the way.

Blackness flooded over his visual field. He didn’t know how Pointblank had managed to short out his optics so quickly, but he didn’t have time to mull it over. He sensed an EM field close to his, felt the pulsing thrum of a nearby spark. His servos almost automatically located a neck. He brought the flat edge of the vibro-blade against where he knew a main energon line would run. He could feel the vibrations as the vocalizer beneath his blade struggled to operate under the pressure.

“ _Jazz_.”

It wasn’t Pointblank’s voice.

It was still dark, but Jazz’s visor was made to function even in pitch blackness. The low light levels were dialed up. His speakers sent out low hums, his sensors cataloging the locations of each piece of furniture. The heavy scent of smoke and ash and burning metal was gone. Jazz had a frame pinned beneath him, smaller and lither than Pointblank, and his knee rested on soft metalfiber rather than ungiving stone.

“Prowl?” Jazz said.

Prowl’s expression was unreadable. “The knife—” he began.

Jazz instantly withdrew the vibro-blade, vanishing it back into one of his sub-spaces. He climbed off of Prowl, letting go of his restrained servo and moving his knee from where he’d pinned Prowl’s middle.

Prowl slowly rose into a sitting position, a servo rising to touch lightly at his neck cables. A digit came back with the slightest gleam of energon on its tip, a new bead quickly arising from the small nick in his cables. The first thing Jazz’s processor noted was how he didn’t move like a mech about to fight back or strike out in retaliation. It was almost funny, how Jazz had nearly killed him and his processor was concerned with cataloging Prowl as ‘ _safe’_.

Once that was done, it didn’t take his processor long to realize the true gravity of the situation. “Prowl, I’m—”

Prowl cut him off. “You recharge with a vibro-blade at your servo?”

Luckily, nearly killing his conjunx snapped him out of recharge quite effectively, or Jazz might have worried about letting some semblance of truth about his line of work slip through. “It’s a force of habit,” he said. He tried to clear his vocalizer, noting how hoarse it sounded, but his next words were hardly better. “I stayed in some sketchy places over the vorns.”

“Apparently,” was all Prowl said. His servo had risen back up to cover the cut.

Jazz had been in the field for years, had had to make life-ending decisions in a nanoklik and had done so flawlessly for all the time he could recall. Now, he felt as though his CPU had frozen; the sensors in his servos felt numb, his optics were fixed on Prowl’s neck cables. He remembered, clearly, the few nanokliks where a mech’s slashed throat looked fine, right before energon began to flood from the lines.

“I’m gonna comm Ratch—”

“No need,” Prowl said. “It’s hardly more than a scratch. If you have a first aid kit at hand, then—”

“Yeah,” Jazz said. “Yeah, okay.” He all but threw himself off the recharge slab, hurriedly pulling the small kit out from under the berth. It was only one of a dozen scattered around the apartment. Jazz had a feeling Ratchet knew where they disappeared to, but he had never said anything about Jazz’s unorthodox hoarding. At least, not directly. Jazz couldn’t count the amount of times Rung had ‘coincidentally’ passed by the route to his office after a new shipment of supplies.

He would need to think of an explanation for Prowl, when he inevitably found them. And the stockpiles of blasters and ammo that would send Red Alert into glitch if he knew about.

Jazz set the kit on the berth and started to open it, but Prowl waved a servo. “It might be best if we moved to the counter,” he said. “I don’t want to get any energon on your covers.”

Jazz didn’t give a tenth of a damn about energon on the covers, but he didn’t have the spark to argue with Prowl. He snapped the lock on the kit shut again and rose to his pedes, saying, “Probably right,” in a way that didn’t sound anywhere as casual as he meant it. He held out a servo for Prowl to take, just out of habit, before it struck him that Prowl most likely didn’t want him in the same galaxy as him right now. Before he could draw back and try to play it off – and fail – Prowl took his servo and slid off the berth. Jazz resisted the urge to clutch Prowl’s servo like a lifeline, as though holding him tight now would keep him from leaving after.

The walk to the table was soundless. Jazz’s spark was spinning dizzyingly fast. He set the kit on the table and opened it, holding back a wince at the sudden break in the heavy silence. He took a step back as soon as the kit was unlocked, ready to retreat the moment icy blue optics fixed on him.

Prowl brought his servo away from cut, inspecting the energon coating his digits. He looked between the kit and Jazz, and Jazz prepared to take another step back and take his leave from the apartment, but Prowl said, “Would you mind patching it? I can’t see it myself.”

“Of course.” The words tumbled out of Jazz’s vocalizer before he truly processed what it meant. He didn’t take a moment to let himself think better of it. He slid into the seat next to Prowl and began taking supplies out of the kit and setting them in order, without really processing it. Beneath his visor, his optics were fixed on Prowl. He couldn’t count the amount of times he had done field patches and minor repairs. A few times it had even been on wounds he inflicted. Never like this, though.

Hardly more than a scratch, his aft. There was a reason vibro-blades were favored by special ops. They sliced through cables with the slightest hint of pressure. Even half in recharge and without his optics on, Jazz easily could have made a gash deep enough that even Ratchet wouldn’t have been able to do anything.

Jazz methodically cleaned and patched the wound, absentmindedly going through the steps he had done hundreds of times before. He tried desperately to ignore it each time Prowl winced, but he couldn’t stop the hesitation that followed.

He stood up the moment the wound was patched, quickly taking two steps back until he could no longer feel Prowl’s EM field. “I should go,” he said.

Prowl had the audacity to look shocked. “Jazz—”

He took another step back, then another, then another. He needed to get away, give Prowl a chance to realize how royally he fragged up. “I’m wide awake now, so I’m just gonna run down and check on some stuff. Get my shift started early. I—” He was close to the door now, close to escape, close to giving Prowl freedom. “I’m sorry.”

He left before had a chance to say anything.

Before he saw Prowl withdraw the comm line from his subspace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could say this chapter is a week late because it’s finals week, but it’s actually because writing is Hard.


	12. The Fallout

Despite the pre-dawn hour, Jazz knew he would be able to find Ultra Magnus on the command deck. The general rarely seemed to recharge, arriving cycles ahead of the start of his own shift, where he commenced his unofficial duties until the time came for him to report in to Optimus Prime. Jazz had snuck past him dozens of times, completely unnoticed, and had even crafted a sort of game out of avoiding the mech. He couldn’t have been in less of a mood to play, now.

When Jazz entered the command deck, making no effort to conceal his pede-steps, he found Magnus peering closely at a dull blue screen, optics scanning across large swathes of miniscule text. Magnus’s helm tilted up, and he cast an uninterested look behind him. “Jazz,” he said. “You aren’t supposed to report until delta shift.”

“I’m not here about shifts,” Jazz said, coming closer. Magnus didn’t spare him another glance, scrolling idly through his document. “I need you to get me out of here.”

“I told you.” Magnus’s voice remained even. “It is always a bad idea to mess with Red Alert’s security protocols. If you’ve upset him, you have a duty to apologize and make it right. I will be putting in no words on your behalf, not after you—”

“This isn’t about messing with Red!” Jazz said. His clipped tone echoed across the empty deck.

Slowly, Magnus rose up to his full height, accentuated by his towering smokestacks protruding from his shoulders. His optics became brighter as they focused in on Jazz, cycling in a few times. His mouth-plates were set in a perfect 180-degree line. When he spoke, he had either lowered his voice, or Jazz’s exclamation had wreaked havoc on his delicate audio sensors, because his glyphs were far fainter than usual. “Your tone,” he drawled, “is unbecoming of an officer.”

“Yeah, a lot of things about me are unbecoming of an officer,” Jazz retorted. “Mags, come on, I just need a favor this one time. Swear I won’t ask again.”

Magnus’s gaze remained steady, totally fixed on him, and Jazz felt as though his very processor was being observed. “Your glyph is worth nothing.” After a moment, he added, “Unlike some around here, I am more than aware of what you are.”

Any other night, Jazz would have joked, because that was really the only way he knew how to fend off the pressure of the guilt that threatened to extinguish his spark from the inside. But, really, there was no use fighting it at this point. “Then let me do that. There has to be some place you want to send me. I’ll go, no questions. Out of your plating. This is me, volunteering for whatever you’ve got.”

That made Magnus’s optics do a rapid reset. “You are… volunteering to go on a special operations mission?”

Jazz made a dismissive gesture. “Spec ops mission, interrogation, infiltration, I don’t care what it is. I just need to get out of Iacon for a while.”

Magnus’s expression, somehow, hardened. “Has something gone awry with Prowl?”

There was a part of Jazz – a reasonable part – that knew it would be better for him if he fessed up to Ultra Magnus now. _‘Hey, Mags, about that – I sorta tried to slit his throat cables while he was recharging. My bad!’_ He’d end up in the brig, only for Optimus to inevitably bail him out, because Optimus was far too trusting to realize just how irreversibly fragged up Jazz was in the processor. Prowl would be stuck with him again, and Jazz might not catch himself next time.

No. He had to supervise his own punishment, since he couldn’t trust Optimus to see it out. They wouldn’t risk recalling him from the field and hauling him back to Iacon over an internal matter. He would be free from Optimus’s aid out there, and Prowl would be free of him.

And Prowl… Jazz knew how Praxians tended to view deviancies from the law, and he figured assault was no different. Prowl would certainly report it to Ultra Magnus himself. And, given the frailty of the alliance, Magnus would put up little fight with Optimus to sweep this all under the rug. Jazz couldn’t trust any of them.

“No,” Jazz lied. “No, everything’s good. But I’m going stir-crazy, Mags. I gotta spin my wheels for a bit.”

Magnus made a derisive sound, almost lost under the hum of his engine. “You are the most high maintenance bot in this army.”

“Don’t let Blaster hear you say that. He’ll take it all personal-like.”

Magnus’s digits clicked against the terminal’s keyboard. His document vanished, replaced by what Jazz recognized as an intelligence report. It was sickeningly scant, something Jazz would have tossed off his desk without a second look if it had been delivered to him. He would have never risked sending Mirage or Bee into a situation so blind. But as for him…

“Wheeljack managed to put this together after analyzing Punch’s latest drop. There is increased Decepticon activity around Ultihex. He thinks it is possible the Decepticons are scrounging up the resources needed to—”

Jazz wasn’t interested in hearing more. “Go it. When can I leave?”

Magnus’s gaze seemed unnaturally cold when it returned to Jazz. Pointedly, he said, “This report is 19 lines long.”

“That’s nice, Mags. That your favorite number or something?”

Magnus said, “You have never approved a special operations mission based on a report shorter than 57 lines, and the Nova Cronum scouting operation was an outlier for reasons far beyond that.”

Curse Magnus and his unnecessary data compilation. Jazz didn’t care how surprisingly helpful it could be in the moment, right now it was a pain in the aft. “Come on. I’m dying here, Mags.”

“ _Magnus_.”

“Whatever. I’ll take it. When can I leave?”

Magnus looked back to his terminal, flicking the report off the screen and bringing his original document back up. “Now is not a good time,” Magnus replied. “Besides our lack of information, we are undoubtably being watched closely by the Praxians. They have an astute optic for detail. If you were to suddenly vanish without explanation, it would raise suspicion. On Prowl, as well as on you.”

Jazz’s higher processing functions left him back when he nearly killed his bond-mate, but the presence of a problem – one he could actually solve – seemed to revitalize his systems. “Make up a mission for _Jazz_ , then,” he proposed. “Tell them we got a message from a band of neutrals interested in the Autobots.”

“Prowl has access to all mission files,” Magnus pointed out.

“Then seal it,” Jazz said. “Say they wanted it kept top-secret so the ‘Cons don’t figure out they’re scoping out their options. Wouldn’t be the first time we did secret meetings with neutrals.”

Magnus shook his helm. “No, lieutenant. This is preposterous. We have enough work on our servos without adding false documentation to the pile. There is real paperwork that needs to be done.”

The blue bot turned his back to Jazz, clasping his servos behind him and intently studying the terminal screen once more. Jazz knew when he had lost. Magnus had a stubbornness that rivaled his own, and… well, unstoppable force meets immovable objects, and all. There was no use fighting this out.

“All right,” Jazz said, stepping away. “I get it, I get it.”

Without looking at him, Magnus added, “Since you’re awake, you should make yourself useful around here. I believe there is quite a bit of work piling up on your desk that you’ve been content to let fester in favor of your new Praxian toy.”

The gears in Jazz’s jaw groaned at the pressure with which he ground his dentae. “’Course, Mags. I’ll get right on it.”

Jazz’s visor did a lot of neat tricks, some of which Red Alert didn’t even know about. Probably for the best too; he’d likely glitch knowing Jazz’s visor could identify energon more effectively than his heat-sensitive cameras. One of Jazz’s old favorites, one he’d had since he really was just a cultural investigator, was an image enhancer that could transcribe handwritten glyphs from thirty yards away.

He put an image capture of Punch’s report in and was viewing a perfectly legible version before he stepped foot off the command deck.

It had been a while since he went to Ultihex.

* * *

Prowl stood, frozen, for a long few kliks. Jazz had vanished beyond the doorway so fast it sent his optics into a reset. He simply clipped out of sight like a specter. Were it not for the sting of his neck cables, he might have wondered if it had happened at all.

In his servo, the comm link beeped with another incoming message. Enigma was certainly growing impatient. Prowl set the comm on the table and brought up the message history.

_Status?_

Followed by the new message: _Prowl. Status?_

Prowl tapped a digit against the black casing of the comm. He had pulled out the comm link, waking Jazz and almost getting himself injured, over a simple status request. Prowl had never carried any delusions that Enigma would inquire about himself personally, but he had thought Enigma’s conversation would be a tad more tactful. Enigma had a diplomatic personality that allowed him to feign interest with others.

 _All is well_ , Prowl typed. The cut in his cables gave an almost guilty sting as he pressed send.

Enigma’s reply was nearly instantaneous. _How progresses your relationship with the Autobot?_

Prowl’s tank churned at the question. He typed out, _He is trusting. He has introduced me to the Prime_. He hesitated, before adding, _I have possibly secured a position as a tactical advisor_.

There was a long moment in which no glyphs appeared on the screen. Then, finally, _Do not allow yourself to become distracted. You are a consort, not a tactician. Do not act outside your function._

Prowl felt his spark sink in his chassis. Enigma’s high expectations meant he never felt pride in Prowl or Barricade’s accomplishments, but he had imagined Enigma would react well to him being able to access the Prime’s plans. That was, after all, what Enigma had instructed him to do. How was a consort, locked away in an apartment, supposed to provide any substantial aid to Enigma? He had done only what was necessary to follow Enigma’s plan.

 _I will have access to the Prime’s audial_ , Prowl typed slowly.

 _And he will have access to you, no doubt_ , Enigma responded. The subglyphs attached to ‘access’ made it clear to what he was referring. _It is bad enough you must debase yourself with one outsider. Let us attempt to limit it to one._

Prowl hesitated before typing, _The Prime seems honorable. His intentions are good_. He then added, in an attempt to placate Enigma, _It appears he and Jazz have a relationship that goes beyond their work for the Autobots. Jazz shares a high stake in Autobot command with the Prime._

 _And I suppose that makes it all right for them to share you as well_.

Prowl’s idle tapping became a bit harder. He responded, _The Prime presents himself with dignity. He has been nothing comparable to untoward._

Enigma’s reply came quickly. _All Primes are the same. How ever could an avatar of Primus be untoward?_ The next message came not long after. _Be wary of him. Your position is precarious. A domestic squabble could be enough to end you._

 _Of course_ , Prowl typed, and left it at that.

 _How fares the home life?_ Enigma asked. Prowl studied the message, partly in shock and partly waiting for a follow-up that would make Enigma’s intentions more clear. Enigma did add, _You were never the domestic sort_.

 _Jazz is kind_ , Prowl answered. _He seems to care for me_.

 _He cares for Praxus’s promise of neutrality_ , Enigma immediately responded. _He is Autobot high command. His interest is with his army, not with you. You were the means to an end. Do not allow the truth of your situation to become distorted simply because you find him charming_. A moment later, a second message came through. _I thought your time with the Enforcers would have enlightened you to the depths some mechs will lie. Should I be concerned about how many criminals walked back onto our streets thanks to your naivety?_

 _No_ , Prowl typed. _I am fully aware of why I am here_.

 _I trust you have avoided any arguments with him_ , Enigma noted. _Your nature can be quite… contrary._

Prowl lightly touched the bandage sealing one of the cables of his neck. Perhaps, if Enigma believed Jazz was a danger, then Prowl would be welcomed back home. He quickly dismissed the idea; leaving the Autobots would just condemn Praxus to the Decepticons and turn his home into a warzone. Besides, the thought of misrepresenting Jazz made Prowl’s tanks churn.

 _I have not disrespected anyone_ , Prowl reported.

 _And physically?_ Enigma questioned. _You are well?_

His neck cable throbbed. Prowl had learned long ago that lying to Enigma, when he had command of every detective and inspector in Praxus, could only result in failure. He highly doubted he was the only pair of optics Enigma had stationed in Iacon; Praxus did have its sympathizers, as few as they were. If Prowl lied now, Enigma would interpret it as a sign of his guilt. Gunner would rejoice.

 _I have a small incision on my neck cables_ , Prowl informed him, _merely the result of an accident_.

 _An accident_. There were no inquisitive glyphs in Enigma’s message. It was an echo; a challenge.

 _I startled Jazz while attempting to answer your first comm message_ , Prowl said. _The time spent handling the situation accounts for my late reply._

 _The error is mine, then?_ The challenging subglyphs were clearly written now.

 _No, of course not_ , Prowl quickly typed back. _It was my own. I should have been more careful_. After a klik, he added, _He recharges very lightly_.

 _Noted_. For a moment, that was all that appeared on Prowl’s screen. He began to worry Enigma had vanished off to report his failings to Gunner, but a second message eventually came through. _How did you rectify your transgressions to him? It must have been a mediocre apology, to only require four kliks of your time._

 _I have not yet had the opportunity_ , Prowl admitted. _He reported to his shift immediately after_.

A disbelieving glyph was Enigma’s first reply, followed by, _So you’ve allowed him to run off and confess your failings to the Prime, then?_

_I do not know where he reported._

_Where else would he go? Perhaps he is off throwing himself a pity party at his luck in bonding,_ Enigma responded. _It has been two cycles, Prowl. I admit my expectations were not high, but this is disappointing. When should I expect a memorandum from the Prime, asking me what sort of glitch I’ve tossed into his court?_

 _What would you have me do?_ Prowl queried back.

 _You are a bonded mech_ , Enigma typed. _Act like it. You’re a Praxian in an outsider’s land. Flutter your doorwings a bit and get on your knees and make yourself useful._

 _Yes, Commander_ , came Prowl’s automatic response.

 _I am already fielding threats from the Decepticons and analyzing the Autobots_ , Enigma added. _I don’t have time to fix your mistakes as well. Rectify your offenses. Beg. Grovel. Spread your legs. Do whatever you must. Wrenched doorwings can be repaired; you have only one chance at this. Praxus has no use for a discarded prince if the Autobots tire of you._

 _I understand_.

Enigma’s next message appeared. _Very well. I expect not to hear from the Prime_.

_You will not._

_For your sake_ , Enigma responded, _I hope not_.


	13. The Infiltration

Prowl struggled not to let Jazz’s continued absence affect him. It should not have, logically. He had spent most of his functioning primarily alone, between Barricade’s constant rebellions and ensuing punishments, Enigma’s never-ending work, and his fellow students and Enforcers unwillingness to step within ten metres of him and face Gunner’s wrath. Being alone hadn’t bothered him since he was a sparkling who didn’t yet understand the precarious reality of his position in Praxus.

But as the time ticked on – and Prowl kept an obsessive optic on his chronometer – and Jazz did not return, he began to worry that there was some truth in Enigma’s theorizing. Perhaps Jazz had gone to Prime. Perhaps Prowl really had already upset his position in Iacon, all over answering Enigma’s comm for the first time.

When a knock came at Jazz’s door, Prowl’s first thought was that Prime or one of his guards had come to escort Prowl from Iacon. Jazz wouldn’t knock at his own hab-suite.

Prowl opened the door and came face-to-face with the Prime’s bodyguard. “Ironhide, isn’t it?” Prowl asked, his voice neutral.

Ironhide nodded and took a step back. “You’re still on for alpha shift today, kid,” he said, gesturing to the hall.

Had word not yet reached the Prime, then? Was Prime simply allowing him some leniency? Prowl honestly couldn’t fathom where Jazz would vanish to if not to Prime’s office.

Ironhide’s optics peered a little closer at him. “You seen a spark-eater or something, kid?”

Prowl quickly adjusted his frame, shifting his armor a little further from his protoform. “No,” he said, stepping outside the door. “No, you simply surprised me.”

A quick check to his chronometer, and Prowl’s spark almost stopped. It was still far from time for alpha shift to start. Was this merely a ruse to get him to exit Jazz’s hab-suite without a fight? Did the Prime intend to have Prowl spend his attentional time in the brig before performing his duties?

Before too many scenarios could run through Prowl’s processor, Ironhide said, “Lucky you – it’s your first day and you’re already doing overtime. Come on.” He gestured for Prowl to follow him and started walking down the hall, without looking back to see if Prowl had fallen into step behind him.

Prowl jogged to catch up. “I don’t understand,” Prowl said. “I’m not meant to report until the eighth joor.”

Ironhide tilted his helm. “If everything was going smoothly, yeah. But we’ve got a little bit of a situation right now.”

A ‘little bit of a situation’ was an understatement. The command deck had nearly descended into chaos, with the towering blue form of Ultra Magnus at the helm, barking orders to various mechs over a range of comms displayed on his terminal. There were no displays depicting battlefields or counts of injured or deceased mechs on display, which left special operations.

He didn’t know the first thing about how to patch up his relationship with Jazz, but this – _this_ was something he could deal with.

For a long moment, his and Ironhide’s presence went unnoticed by Ultra Magnus. From what Prowl picked up from his side of the comms, he was scrambling to reorganize field operatives around Ultihex. Some couldn’t risk breaking their cover. Others couldn’t respond to Ultra Magnus’s queries without risking exposure. It was a mess, and watching it play out had Prowl’s doorwings twitching in annoyance.

When Ultra Magnus finally turned around, he fixated immediately on Prowl. “It is in your skillset to estimate variables from limited information, is it not?” he asked.

Prowl said, “The results become less accurate with more unknown variables, but I am more than capable of formulating plans based on whatever data is available, no matter how scant.”

Ultra Magnus handed him a data-pad, already online and displaying two paragraphs of information. “This is all our operative in Ultihex is operating on right now. It’s too dangerous a city-state to allow him to maneuver around there for more than a few cycles at most. His presence will eventually be noticed. We are running on very limited time.”

Prowl attempted to flip through the report but was met with an error message. “Where is the rest of it?” Prowl asked.

“Pardon?” the Magnus said.

Prowl raised the data-pad. “The rest of the dossier you used to assign this mission. Where is the rest?”

Ultra Magnus at least had the decency to look disappointed. “That is the entire report. There is no more.”

Prowl’s spark spun a little faster at that. Already, his processor was churning out numerous plans, all effectively useless unless he could identify more points of interest. “Do you have any other operatives in Ultihex who could report to me while your operative carried out the mission?”

Ultra Magnus shook his helm. “We only dared send in Punch once, for little more than one cycle. That in itself was a risk. Meister is the only active operative in the area, and for good reason.”

Prowl’s optics took in the screen again, the little data available. _Meister_. “Can you get me in contact with Meister?” he asked.

The Magnus’s plating clamped a little tighter to his frame. “Any plans of yours must go through myself or Red Alert. Consider this mission a probationary one. We will consider extending your privileges, should this mission prove you capable of working one.”

That made things invariable more complicated on this side, but Prowl didn’t have the time nor the support to argue with the Magnus. Even in the sheltered walls of Praxus, he knew about the Decepticon-controlled neutral-only-in-name city-state of Ultihex. Enigma had expressed his staunch disapproval at being seen in the same category as it. There were never any repercussions to Ultihex; neither side dared risk offending its leadership. Not when Ultihex contained the largest armory factory on Cybertron.

“Very well,” Prowl said. “Would you mind if I took a terminal next to yours, to eliminate time spent on communications between us?”

Ultra Magnus gestured to the nearest one. “Please.”

Prowl, his utterly useless data-pad in tow, made his way over to the terminal and signed on with the security codes the Magnus had gifted him not even a cycle ago.

Ironhide remained behind him, a steady shadow. As Prowl brought the terminal to life, he asked, as neutrally as he could manage, “Have you come across Jazz this morning? I seem to have lost track of him.”

Prowl could see Ironhide uneasily shifting his weight between his pedes in the reflection of the terminal. “I ain’t seen him,” Ironhide said. “He… he took off pretty early. Got a message in from Karus late last night. Some neutrals, interested in the ‘bots. He didn’t like the idea of letting them wait around long.”

“Of course,” Prowl said. His digits absentmindedly typed away, organizing data into lists. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

Ironhide shrugged. “Whenever he feels like it. Jazz don’t exactly work on a schedule.”

Prowl had to relent to that. Praxus had nothing comparable to a cultural investigator, but he imagined the work would come and go with unpredictable frequency. Undoubtedly, the combination of his charisma and understanding of cultural nuances would make him an irreplaceable asset to the Autobot cause.

As he busied himself with organizing the known data and connecting variables, he tried not to let his processor drift to the idea that, perhaps, Jazz’s departure was not so random. Had Prowl’s reaction been so bad that Jazz felt the need to flee? Prowl should have been more clear that he didn’t blame Jazz, that he was sorry for startling him. Enigma always said the deficits in his emotional programming would cause his ruination one day. All he could hope for now was that Praxus didn’t have to suffer for his own errors.

* * *

Jazz didn’t turn his comm back on until the first towering skyscrapers of Ultihex entered his field of vision. Of course, a huge backlog of missed comms overloaded his HUD, all of which Jazz casually dismissed. He couldn’t help but notice that none of them hailed from Prowl’s frequency. Not that he blamed him. His fuel tank churned, though he wrote it off as a result of the dust his tires disturbed tickling his undercarriage.

Almost instantaneously, Ultra Magnus connected to his comm. Jazz answered.

 _“You fool.”_ Magnus’s voice was biting. “ _You absolutely selfish prick. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”_

Well, he was in a rare form. Jazz’s first thought was that Prowl had finally come forward and confessed everything that had happened. He wasn’t exactly Mags’ favorite ‘bot to begin with. Magnus had the same sort of distaste for special operations that Jazz expected of Prowl. Even having Optimus in his corner couldn’t save Jazz from Magnus’s inevitable wrath. After all, Jazz may have shattered his precious arrangement with Praxus.

Because that was just what Jazz needed. More ‘bots deactivated because of him.

 _“Do you have any idea how many protocols you have broken just by leaving base without notifying anyone?”_ Magnus said, and Jazz’s vents resumed. _“Not to mention how many more you have broken by_ stealing _classified information to do so_.”

_“Sorry, Mags,”_ Jazz sent back. _“Told ya, I’ve been dying to get out some. The air in Iacon has just been clogging my vents.”_

 _“You have all of high command in a mad scramble, trying to make sure you don’t get yourself deactivated,”_ Magnus snapped. _“I can forgive your tone, but this behavior is unacceptable for an officer. For any Autobot. I will be raising my concerns with the Prime.”_

And Optimus wouldn’t hear a single glyph Magnus said. He'd nod, and play along, sure, but the moment Magnus left the office, Optimus would toss it aside, just like he had done the Senators' warnings about Jazz. _“You do that, buddy,”_ Jazz said.

Before he could flick off his comm again, Magnus said, _“I’ve had to drag your conjunx out of his hab-suite just to accumulate the mech-power needed to handle this situation. Next time, at least pretend to show some concern for the schedules of others.”_

The energon in Jazz’s fuel lines went cold. _“Prowl’s there?”_

_“He is under the impression he is aiding Meister,”_ Magnus told him, only the slightest bit more softly.

Well, that solved half the problem, at least. _“Where does he think I’ve gone?”_

Jazz could hear Magnus’s scowl. _“I’ll be assigning double the paperwork for you when you get back,”_ he said, _“for a_ minimum _of two lunar cycles. If you think we all have time to falsify data-pads of information, you clearly aren’t working hard enough on your own.”_

So Magnus had taken his cover story after all. Jazz’s spark didn’t spin any slower at that revelation. A clever processor like Prowl’s… how long would it take him to realize Meister’s sudden mission coincided with Jazz’s abrupt departure? Jazz was certain Prowl would be scrounging for any information he could use to build a case against Jazz now. He didn’t need to drag it through the court systems, he just had to convince Optimus to let him go back to Praxus.

It was incredible, in a way, Jazz realized. Not one cycle ago, Optimus had asked him how they could ensure Prowl wouldn’t go back to Praxus. Now Jazz was likely the one who would chase him back there. The last thing he wanted to consider was the fact he might have ruined the treaty with Praxus, on top of destroying his own conjunx relationship.

 _Frag_. Frag it all.

Jazz was pushing his top speed when the glimmer of Ultihex’s westernmost entry station appeared on the horizon. Almost absentmindedly, he flipped his color scheme to a darker one, white paint nanites giving way to grey and blue switching to red. It was one of Wheeljack’s older inventions, funded by and kept quiet by the Senate. His engine still gunning, he slowed to a more acceptable speed as the roadway widened. The dusty asphalt gave way to smooth metal. There were no clearance checks into Ultihex, despite the Decepticon occupancy. Jazz was waved on by without a second look his way.

The streets of Ultihex were nothing like Iacon, nothing like Petrex, nothing like anything else on Cybertron. The city-state was practically built around the factory at its center, one of the oldest armories on Cybertron. Others had popped up to support its industry – paint nanite shops, engineering schools, frame modification offices. It had a servo in every mechanical industry on Cybertron, and some off-world.

The first whispers of Decepticon activity started early in the war. Ultihex was in close proximity to Iacon, just a few joors’ drive. Autobot sympathizers were quickly run from the city-state and into Iacon’s waiting arms, much to the smug satisfaction of the Senate. Optimus, Jazz keenly recalled, had been the only one of them to step up to actually _help_ the mechs, rather than gloat at their increased numbers. Jazz, under orders from Saberstorm, had mingled among them to root out any potential Decepticon threats. To _neutralize_ them, as Saberstorm put it.

The frames of the Decepticon spies never made it back to Ultihex.

Counterpunch, however, did.

Jazz found his way to the armory factory easily enough – almost all roads in the city-state led to it. He blended in with the heavy traffic coming to and from the factory. An alarming number of purple insignias flashed by him. He was far from the only bot lacking one, though. He wanted to think Ultihex wasn’t a lost cause yet, despite what Punch had reported.

Getting near was the easy part – any bot could walk up to it. Getting inside is where things got difficult. Well-armored war-builds with powered-up laser blasters half their size stood outside the main entryway, optics hidden beneath red visors. Jazz drove by once, thankful for the slow, heavy traffic mulling around the center of the city-state, and catalogued each possible entryway left unguarded.

There were sickeningly few. There was a reason Punch’s report had been so scant. There was only so much you could observe from the outside.

His best bet, he concluded, was one of the vents. Jazz wasn’t a mini-bot, but the factory had been made with bigger builds in mind. It would be uncomfortable, but it would get him in, and that was all that mattered.

The back side of the factory was far less welcoming than the front. Orange-red rust had crept up the lower support beams while the upper walls had clearly been eaten away at by acid rain for vorns. The shops sprawling outward from the road reflected this derelict state, crafted of dark metal and situated low to the ground. Fewer bots made this far around the circle. Those who did kept their helms down and their wheels spinning.

Jazz transformed back into root mode and slipped into the shadows behind one of the rusted support beams. He activated the magnets in his servos and pedes and latched on. The loose collections of rust proved difficult to navigate around, but not impossible. It was far from the worse climb Jazz had made. Primus, _nothing_ would compare to Sectrus.

The vents on the interior of the support beams lacked the metal guard-rails those on the exterior wore. Slowly, Jazz deactivated the magnets in his servos one by one, clasping the edge of the vent and hauling himself up. It was a tight, uncomfortable fit, but Jazz managed to slip inside one and detach fully from the support beam. The metal groaned under his weight, the sound echoing through the otherwise empty vents. Jazz winced and waited for the reverberations to cease before he pulled himself – ever-so-carefully – forward. Almost instantly, instinctively, he picked out the weakest parts of vents that risked noise if pressure was applied.

Only vorns of experience kept Jazz from jumping out of his plating when his comm beeped and Magnus’s voice blared into his helm. _“Meister, do you copy?”_

Jazz paused, reactivating his comm line. _“Copy. This better be good, Mags. I’m in a bit of a tight spot right now.”_

It wasn’t Magnus’s voice that answered, but one that sent a thrill of joy through Jazz’s spark to hear. _“Have you already infiltrated the factory? What side are you entering from?”_

Jazz forced his spark to still, reminding himself that Prowl didn’t actually care, he had no idea it was Jazz he was speaking with. _“South, I think,”_ Jazz said. He attempted to check his internal compass, but an error message popped up. _“All this metal’s messin’ with my compass, I think.”_

 _“Did you enter—?”_ Prowl’s voice began, and then cut off.

A moment later, it was Magnus speaking again, loud enough to make Jazz wince. _“Did you infiltrate the factory facing to or from the western entry point of Ultihex?”_

 _“Facing the entry,”_ Jazz said.

There was a pause, and then Magnus said, _“Continue straight. If this building is up to code, the vents should converge in a central ventilation station.”_

Jazz muted his comm before he could say anything snarky about Ultihex’s probable concern about building codes and continued pulling himself along. It was a straight shot from his entryway, slowly becoming easier to navigate through as his vent converged with others into larger pathways. The particles of dust and rust that had scraped Jazz’s plating earlier in his journey gave way to smooth, sleek grey metal. Periodic rushes of cold air, like the breathing of a great beast, chilled his protoform, and he clamped his armor down tighter.

Finally, in a segment wide enough that Jazz could have stretched out fully, his visor registered light ahead. With renewed energy, Jazz tugged himself the last few yards until he reached a metal grate. Peering through it, he found himself viewing the large, humming cylinder that kept cool air circulating through the factory.

 _“I’m at the central room,”_ Jazz reported. _“What now?”_

Magnus’s comm flicked off, and before Jazz could ask him _what the hell_ he was doing, it flared back to life with a crackle and Magnus said, _“Do you have any weapons with you?”_

Jazz’s tanks churned at the memory of the knife, still tucked away in his subspace. _“Yeah, mech. Always. What do you take me for?”_

Another pause. Magnus said, _“Do you have anything capable of causing an explosion?”_

Jazz grinned. _“’Course I do.”_

 _“The armory relies on the central cooling unit to prevent smelters from overheating,”_ Magnus relayed, sounding as though he was reading from a script. “ _Ruining this should result in substantial overheating. A cooling unit for a factory size would take orns to fully replace. It doesn’t solve the problem,”_ Magnus relented, _“but it does buy us time to figure out something more permanent.”_

 _“Got it,”_ Jazz said. A little bit of wrenching with the vibro-blade, and segments of the metal grate clattered to the floor below. He twisted around until he could jump pedes-first into the room.

Something clicked under Jazz’s pede.

 _“Uh. Small problem with that plan,”_ Jazz said. He stepped back, and another click burst through the silence, and immediately red alarm klaxons began to scream. _“I don’t think I’m getting anywhere else in this place.”_

 _“Is that an alarm?”_ Magnus’s voice was tense. _“Did you trigger an alarm? Meister?”_

Jazz quickly crossed the distance between himself and the cooling unit. _“Later, Mags. How do I turn this thing off?”_

Magnus’s comm flicked off again. Startled, Jazz repeated, _“Mags? Mags? Come on, mech, you can’t leave me hanging like this—!”_

The general’s comm returned to life. _“There should be something near the middle, about optic-level,”_ Magnus said slowly. _“It’s… I believe it something like a—”_

 _“Mags!”_ Jazz snapped. _“We don’t have time for this!”_

Magnus huffed. _“I’m attempting to translate! There should be a control board beneath one of the panels at—”_

_“Put me on with the damn tactician, Mags!”_

There was a click, and then Prowl’s voice flooded his helm, a deep tidal wave that sent his spark spinning rapidly rather than calming it. _“About sixty degrees to the left of where you dropped in, there should be a panel that will respond to being pressed inward. This should reveal a control panel. Destroy the panel, and the unit should cease to function.”_

Jazz did as he said, and when that panel didn’t give way, he slipped over to the right side and tried there. Sure enough, the panel slid back to reveal an array of controls. _“Gotta work on your rights and lefts, Prowler,”_ Jazz said, drawing his blaster out of his subspace. _“Almost had me worried there.”_

 _“Prowler?”_ Prowl echoed, sounding thoroughly flummoxed.

Jazz’s grin was blinding as he pulled the trigger and the control panel went up in searing yellow and orange flames. A deep rattle ran through the cylindrical unit, from the middle to the top, where it connected to the series of vents. A stuttering huff of hot air pulsed into the room, enough to make Jazz’s vents stall and snap shut. Heat warnings flashed on his HUD in brilliant, unmistakable red.

 _“I suggest you hurry on out,”_ Prowl said, _“unless you would like to experience melted coolant lines.”_

Jazz was absolutely fine _not_ experiencing that.

 _“I owe you one, Prowler,”_ Jazz said, swinging back up into the vents.

There was a pause, and Jazz thought he could hear the self-satisfied smile in Prowl’s voice as he said, _“Noted. I—”_

The comm clicked off, then reconnected a moment later _. “That is all, Meister_ , _”_ Ultra Magnus said, voice rumbling with an unspoken threat. _“Report back to your previous station. Immediately_. _”_

The link disconnected, and this time, no one called back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally started EMT school!! Hopefully this will still update every Monday or every other Monday.


	14. The Realization

Mechanisms flooded the streets as a golden-red fire overtook the factory, circuits sparking with newly-caught flames, and Jazz vanished quicker than a ship in the Sea of Rust.

Jazz could have made it back to Iacon before the arrival of that night-cycle. His engine was made for endurance, his frame sculpted for high speeds. It was easy to slip the Enforcers in the ensuing chaos, gunning it past abandoned checkpoints at the city-state limits. No one paid any mind to a speedster after a sabotage on a factory full of mechs whose size could rival war-builds.

He could have made it back before the night-cycle… but he didn’t. The wispy blue lights of Altihex appeared in the distance as the Calcite Mountains cast long, heavy shadows over the deserted valley between the two city-states. Dust peppered Jazz’s frame. Mud caked in his tires. He had driven far longer in far worse conditions, had arrived back in Iacon just to immediately collect orders for his next mission and depart. Idleness never sat well with him. But the idea of returning to Iacon, of facing his next battle against Prowl, made his fuel tank churn as though he had taken bad fuel. He’d been poisoned before and felt better than this.

His tires screeched against the sandy road as he made a sudden turn.

There were no guards outside the outskirts of Altihex. The city-state was affluent, with towering skyscrapers that would make Vos envious, should they ever peer out from their isolated hidey-hole. Its shared border with Iacon hadn’t been a point of contention since the middle of the Golden Age. Megatron’s messages had reached its denizens, and Jazz thought their proximity to the Senate had something to do with their rapid alignment with the Autobots. Primus knew he’d intimidated his share of politicians on their behalf, and he was far from the only operative they had in their servos.

Jazz had played here before. He had taken his sitar out to the streets between his shows in the grand music halls, reserved exclusively for the best on Cybertron. He had familiarized himself with the local politicians. He had used them like tools at the Senate’s behest. After Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, he used their friendship as a means to ingratiate himself to the religious leaders. Any good memories of his time there were thoroughly corrupted with the Senate’s touch.

The Altihexian Council, much like the Senate, were not above contracting their own operatives. He still had contacts within the city-state, ones who were well-aware of Jazz’s connections with the Senate and the Prime and wouldn’t hesitate to grant him unrestricted access to all their resources and safehouses.

He didn’t bother to make contact beyond a quick comm to one of the Altihexian operatives before he shut off his entire communication system. Magnus would throw a fit. Jazz, perhaps puerilely misdirecting his frustration, hoped he did.

Unlike most of the vast towers of Altihex, its safehouses were not made for comfort. The room he dropped into was cold and utilitarian, with only a single berth and a small stockpile of untraceable weapons. Rust had begun to creep up the walls. Water dripped incessantly from one of the pipes crisscrossing the short ceiling. Jazz just dropped indifferently onto the recharge slab. There had been worse, and there always would be worse.

He was exhausted, a little burned up, undeniably a few delicate wires melted and outer plating singed. His plating was scratched from the rocks he’d thrown up in his mad drive to and from Ultihex. He’d worn down the treads on his tires. Ratchet would throw a fit – he always did, no matter the state Jazz returned in. Jazz made fraudulent promises to take better care of himself so Ratchet would release him from his tender mercies. He had a feeling Ratchet knew better, but the medic knew just as well that there was no way to keep Jazz somewhere he didn’t want to be, and it was easier to feign acceptance and release him than take the wound to his pride that Jazz escaping the med-bay would inflict.

There was this odd feeling in his spark, a sort of lonesomeness he hadn’t experienced since he’d left his creators to pursue traveling music. It was dull, like an old weld reopened. The heaviness that descended over his chassis was not fatigue, but he felt tired nevertheless.

Orion always told him he did good for the Autobots, and the Senate before them. It was always easy for him to say; he never had to act as the assassin, the saboteur, the weapon in the Senate’s servo. Jazz wanted to believe him. More than that, he realized, he wanted _Prowl_ to believe him. He wanted Prowl to think there was more to him than the energon on his servos and the lies in his vocalizer.

Prowl deserved better. Jazz had known that from the beginning. He walked into this with no delusions. Prowl was no better than a hostage in Iacon at Enigma’s command. It was pure terrible luck that the highest-ranking eligible mech below Optimus happened to be his spymaster. Prowl’s chances of returning were slim. If Enigma didn’t send him back, then Magnus would have Jazz track him down, and Jazz would inevitably, selfishly obey.

He wanted Prowl to stay.

The thought was accompanied with a deep ache in his spark. He wanted Prowl to stay in Iacon. He wanted the same manipulative thing Optimus had requested of him. What did that make him? A mech willing to play mind games to keep Prowl around? The thought made him sick.

He didn’t – couldn’t – see Prowl as another target, as means to an end. He was more than that. Far more. More than Jazz had expected. More than he ever could have wanted.

Where else would he find another mech like Prowl? A mech who flawlessly dictated orders under stress, who didn’t hesitate to give Jazz the instructions to save his life? A mech who never paused to consider the other mechanisms in the factory, just like Jazz, who didn’t have the luxury of such a thought. Who else would understand that? Not Optimus, with his naïve outlook. Not Magnus, with his rigid morals.

Jazz never liked idleness. Never liked mechs who did idle either. Never understood frivolous pursuits. He kept souvenirs from his travels to remind himself what he had done, where he had been, who didn’t deserve to be forgotten in the Senate’s pursuit for the eradication of the Decepticons. Just more tools.

Perhaps that was what he needed, then. Another tool. Someone like Prowl, who could exist both within and outside his realm of operations. Who didn’t flinch at what Jazz had to do. Who didn’t look at him with disdain like Magnus, or pity like Optimus. Someone who _understood_ the goal, what had to be done.

What would it be like, to return home from somewhere like Ultihex and not have to pretend he was off playing nice with neutrals? To talk freely about what had happened, without the looks, the disgust, the outrage. To not hide both in the field and out. To be with someone who wouldn’t hold himself against himself. It sounded like freedom. And now, it sounded possible. Faintly, barely there, a distant possibility, but _within reach_.

Was that what love was? Jazz wondered. Maybe that’s what it was to his corrupted processor.

And maybe, one day, Prowl would understand why Jazz just _had_ to keep him in Iacon.

* * *

The fallout from Meister’s mission in Ultihex had consumed the rest of Prowl’s day. He didn’t know the joors of the shifts beyond the alpha shift he was supposed to work, so the passage of time outside that window was meaningless to him. His digits flew across the terminal’s keypad, finishing a report on the prospective impact to the Decepticons’ weapon manufacturing he had commandeered from a mathematician who had made grievous allotments that skewed the numbers. Perhaps he did look a little too closely at the details, evaluated a bit too many variables that might not matter, but Enigma had taught him to be thorough.

A servo hesitated over his shoulder before its owner clearly thought better of it and drew back. Prowl’s digits paused on the terminal.

“Time for you to go,” Ironhide said. “It’s delta shift already. Get some rest.”

Prowl resumed typing. “This report is incomplete.”

The terminal went dark. Ironhide had flipped the switch. “It’s not your report,” Ironhide said. “It’s Matrix’s.”

“His work left much to be desired.”

Ironhide gave a barking laugh. “So I heard. I think you scared the mech.”

Prowl scoffed.

Ironhide forced himself between Prowl and the terminal, forcing the Praxian three steps back. The large mech’s arms were crossed in front of his chassis, his faceplates a mask of scowling disapproval. It looked vastly exaggerated compared to Enigma’s slight expressions.

“I am not a sparkling,” Prowl said.

“Clearly. Sparklings know to follow their recharge-times.”

Prowl tried another method. “It would be useless for me to go to Jazz’s hab-suite,” he said. “I don’t have the access codes to enter on my own.”

Ironhide just looked tired at that. “Probably slipped Jazz’s processor. He’s an… odd thing. Don’t take it personally.”

“I didn’t. I am well-aware the space is his own.”

“Yours too, now,” Ironhide said.

Prowl shook his helm. “I don’t want to invade upon his space without his supervision. If you would simply grant me temporary access to the barracks, then—”

“You’re an Autobot tactician, you’re bonded to the lieutenant general, you ain’t recharging with them. You got a perfectly good berth in your own hab-suite.”

Prowl had obviously underestimated this mech’s stubbornness, but he was unwilling to back down now. It seemed greatly unfair, to take advantage of Jazz’s hab-suite when Jazz himself didn’t get to use it. Prowl had already ruined his cycle enough; the last thing he wanted to do was invade further upon Jazz. He had spent more than a few night-cycles recharging at the Enforcer station. Being the Captain’s creation didn’t grant him any extra turns on the few recharge slabs in the holding quarters, so he had grown accustomed to recharging at his desk, in his standard-issue office chair.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” Prowl said, raising a placating servo, “but it is in vain. I am truly unaware of the codes for Jazz’s hab-suite.”

Ironhide made a dismissive gesture. “Red’s got that covered.”

The mech started to walk away, and subconsciously Prowl began to follow his authoritative step. “Red?” Prowl echoed.

“Red Alert,” Ironhide said. Prowl came to walk alongside him. “He and Jazz have this… competition, I guess, going on. Jazz messes with Red’s security protocols. Red tries to make Jazz’s life the Pit, changing codes on his office and his hab. Drives Magnus up the wall, but he doesn’t understand enough code to keep either of them from it.”

“Red Alert is the security director,” Prowl realized. “I have heard of him in passing. I was not aware of his designation.”

“He’s our unseen savior,” Ironhide said. He pointed to the walls. “Cameras everywhere. Codes practically unbreakable. No mech sneaks in or out, no message is sent or received, without Red Alert knowing about it.”

Prowl’s plating clamped a little closer to his protoform. Enigma had sworn their comm link was unhackable, manual and outdated and under the radar. He had no reason to lie, to risk getting Prowl convicted of treason when he needed Prowl to coerce the Prime on Praxus’s behalf. Prowl wondered, if he managed to fail Enigma, if the mech would point the Autobots toward the comm link in spite. It’s not as though they could harm Enigma, safely tucked away in Praxus. Prowl, however, would be at their mercy. He imagined being Conjunxed to the second-in-command would make the offense all the worse, rather than aid his case.

Sure enough, when they arrived in the hallway outside Jazz’s hab-suite, the door to his hab swung open on its own accord. Ironhide waved casually to a camera tucked in the corner of the hall. Prowl, without a word, slipped into the hab-suite.

“Recharge!” was Ironhide’s last barked command before the door slid shut again, and Prowl was left alone in the dark, empty hab-suite.

The first thing he did was check his comm for any more messages from Enigma. The screen was blank, aside from the final lines of their previous conversation. There was something cold about the image, the blankness, and Prowl got the inexplicable sensation that he was being coolly ignored. Both from Jazz and Enigma.

Prowl didn’t waste any time dallying around the hab-suite to burrow through Jazz’s things like a thief. Espionage could wait for the morning joors. For now, Prowl’s heavy frame wanted nothing more than to collapse into the sinfully soft covers of Jazz’s ridiculously large berth. The delusion that, perhaps, when he rose from recharge, Jazz would have returned in the dead of the night cycle and joined his cold frame on the berth was quickly squashed. Prowl was nothing if not realistic, and, as Enigma had pointed out, Jazz had fled from him for a reason. It was really a miracle he had managed to last at least two cycles before driving his conjunx to attempt to murder him. Undoubtedly, a few bets in Praxus had been lost.

The covers were a haphazard, tangled mess from Jazz’s rapid extraction last dark cycle. A few drops of energon had stained into the mesh. A guilty flare surged through his spark. He would have replaced the mesh, hidden the reminder of his failure, but he had no idea where Jazz kept extra berth supplies and he was far too weary to dig through all Jazz’s hidden alcoves.

Prowl buried himself in the mesh sheets, left cold after so long away. Jazz’s scent was overwhelming, surrounding him like a personal atmosphere. The comm link, now tucked away in the space between the berth and the steel walls, stayed aloofly silent.

Prowl descended into recharge, accompanied by ephemeral flashes of a familiar blue visor.


	15. The Return

Jazz tried to plan his reentry into Autobot Headquarters early the next night-cycle, coincidentally at the same time as a major shift change, early enough that they wouldn’t be on alert for bots sneaking in. Predominantly Magnus, given his awareness of what Jazz was.

Of course, he wasn’t actually that lucky.

Jazz made it one hall in before the long, hulking shadow of Ultra Magnus blocked his path. “I admit, I am a little impressed,” Magnus rumbled. His baritone had a particular way of making Jazz’s plating prickle. “I expected you to slink in the back way in the dead of the night-cycle, not come waltzing through the front door in time for dinner. Imagine my surprise when Red Alert comm-ed with the news.”

Red Alert could kiss his flawless next updates goodbye. Jazz spread his servos. “What can I say, mech? I’m absolutely famished after all that running around.”

He attempted to step to Magnus’s side and continue on his way, not that Magnus’s figure left him much room for maneuvering. A heavy servo clapping down on his shoulder rooted him firmly in place. Jazz knew better than to fight; he might be the most talented agent on Cybertron, but Magnus had probably two tons on him and could toss him like a cube of energon.

“Optimus wants to talk to you,” Magnus informed him, in the same tone in which he might have said, _‘We have successfully pushed the Decepticons out of Iacon.’_

Jazz refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing his face fall. “Cool,” he said, already starting to take a step forward. “His hab?”

Magnus’s servo didn’t give an inch. Instead, Jazz was spun back around and pushed forward. “His office,” Magnus said coolly, “where official matters of importance are _meant_ to take place.”

“Mags, I respect the professionalism, but I’ve been haunting OP’s hab since before he ever even laid optics on ol’ Megs.”

Jazz at least got the satisfaction of seeing the way Magnus’s plating clamp down tighter in repulsion before he was pushed further ahead.

The Third-in-Command walked stiffly – more so than usual – and Jazz could almost liken it to stomping. He nearly said so, just to get under Mags’ plating, but he decided he favored his shoulder joint staying in its socket. Magnus might have been a stickler for the rules, but he didn’t consider Jazz a real Autobot, and thus none of the law’s protections applied to him. Magnus’s reverence for their Prime kept his distaste in check.

When they reached the office, secluded from the rest of High Command’s work suites and comfortingly close to the entrance to the Archives, Magnus stepped around Jazz. His servo was already raised to knock against the metal. Jazz’s orns of practice ensured he had already put in Optimus’s security code on the pad before Magnus’s servo touched the metal. Jazz was certain if not for the welcoming beep of the pad accepting the security code, he could have heard Magnus’s jaw grinding in frustration.

He stepped in the moment the door slid open enough. Optimus kept his office in relatively low light, unaided by the cluttered shelves of data-pads casting long shadows through the room. The blue light of whatever set of data-pads Optimus had open on his desk provided most of the lighting. His desk, smaller than even Jazz’s rarely used one, offered more room for the ever-growing piles of data-pads. Jazz thought he might have been the only bot, besides maybe Alpha Trion, who would have recognized the battered old thing as the desk Optimus had occupied during his time as an archivist.

Optimus set down his data-pad as Jazz entered, one of what must have been half a dozen onlined pads scattered across his desk. He rose without the elegance of Ultra Magnus, who had the advantage of wearing his oversized frame since he came online.

“Jazz, old friend,” Optimus said, the glyphs falling out in a sigh of relief. “It is good to see you back in one piece.”

“Starting to doubt me, OP?” Jazz asked, putting on his most brilliant smile.

The shadow the overcrowded data-shelves cast over the room was nothing compared to the one Ultra Magnus sent across it. His heavy footfalls trailed up behind Jazz before stepping aside at the last moment to stand at Jazz’s shoulder. He crossed his servos behind his back and fixed Optimus with his characteristic glower.

“Never,” Optimus said.

“To the contrary,” refuted Magnus. “I have some concerns.”

Optimus’s face fell. “Of course, Ultra Magnus. Please, speak freely.”

Magnus did not hesitate to do so. “Ever since the arrival of the Praxian, Jazz’s behavior has been increasing erratic. First, he insists upon allowing an outsider with interests contrary to the Autobot cause into the fold of High Command. Now he has begun to leave for unapproved missions into Decepticon territory in the dead of night. It has been three cycles. What am I to expect in an orn? A vorn? Should I go ahead and transfer his records to the Decepticons now?”

Optimus began to protest, but Jazz’s voice was louder. “I ain’t no ‘Con,” Jazz hissed. “And it wasn’t me alone who put Prowl in High Command. I seem to remember you backing it as well.”

“Prowl undoubtedly has a talented processor,” Magnus agreed, “and it worries me what he might do with it now that he has access to sensitive information.”

“Our agents in Special Operations and security have been keeping a close optic on Prowl,” Optimus said. “He has not done anything to suggest betraying us.”

“It has been _three cycles_ ,” Magnus retorted.

Jazz’s armor began to flare. “So you want to kick him out of command already? Maybe the explosion fried some of my memory circuits, but I’m pretty sure he’s the bot who saved my aft in Ultihex.”

“From a threat that never would have occurred if you hadn’t fled the base,” Magnus countered. His upper body twisted until he looked directly down at Jazz. “I still never received an answer that night-cycle. What occurred with Prowl that sent you to take an unapproved mission?”

“Nothing,” Jazz said. “ _Nothing_ happened.”

Optimus was unusually quiet. When Jazz looked to him, he saw the bot’s mouth-plates pressed into a thin line.

“Optimus.” Magnus’s voice was hard. “You must see reason.”

“Optimus?” Jazz’s own voice was low.

Blue optics fixed on Jazz. “I know you favor yourself as impulsive at times, but you have never allowed that to interfere with your work before. It is highly unlike you to act the way you did. I am inclined to agree with Magnus. Your behavior of late has been… odd.”

Jazz’s next words were blatantly cold. “So what? You can’t send Prowl back; the Praxians will go straight to the Decepticons.” To Magnus, he added, “ _You_ made the biggest fuss about making things work.”

“If Prowl should end up wounded or dead,” Magnus said, “the Praxians will not only join the Decepticons, but point them our way.”

“So now you think I’m planning to kill him?”

“I think your behavior of late is cause for concern. You didn’t want to bond in the first place,” said Magnus. In a lower tone, he added, “He wouldn’t be the first Autobot you’ve killed.”

“ _Magnus_ ,” Optimus snapped.

Magnus took a step back from Jazz, as much as the small office would allow. His own armor had begun to flare.

“Jazz,” Optimus began. “I understand the past few days must have been of some difficulty, but that is not an excuse to leave the base and enter Decepticon territory on an unapproved mission. You vanished in the midst of the night-cycle with no notification. Red Alert is the only reason Prowl wasn’t brought in for questioning immediately. If there is truly no ill will between the two of you, you must understand that your actions have consequences on him as well.”

Jazz didn’t look at Optimus when he said, “Yeah, OP, I get it.” After a moment, a tad quieter, he added, “I wasn’t thinking right.”

“More like _at all_ ,” Magnus interjected.

“Magnus.” Flinty blue optics pierced the towering bot for a long moment before Optimus looked back to Jazz. “This cannot become a routine, for your safety and Prowl’s.”

Magnus clarified, “Should the bond be strong enough, any severe injury to you – or your deactivation – could be reflected equally on Prowl. I hope I do not have to repeat myself on the consequences of any harm befalling the Praxian.”

“More than that,” Optimus said, “you had me worried, old friend.”

“Wasn’t my intention, OP.”

Magnus shifted, straightening himself to his full height. The tips of his smokestacks nearly brushed the ceiling. “I still have not received an adequate answer to my inquiry,” he stated.

Jazz waved a servo. “Plain Neo-Cybex, Mags. It’s too late for this slag.”

“It is just past time for evening rations,” Magnus refuted, but nevertheless, he continued, “What was the inciting event that led to you abandoning your post here and going on an unapproved mission?”

“Why’s it gotta be something bad?” Jazz asked. He leaned against Optimus’s desk and faced Magnus, hoping the combined look of the two of them might falter the Third-in-Command. “I told you straight-up, Mags, I was going stir-crazy.”

Magnus’s optics narrowed. “I find it hard to believe that. You have been stationed at bases for quartexes without leaving and have only minor disciplinary infractions to show for it. It has been only four orns since your last mission into Decepticon territory. Your arrival at my terminal in the midst of the night-cycle suggests something caused you to retreat from your shared hab-suite with the Praxian and drive you to exit the city-state for—”

“All right! Primus, Mags, I get it, I acted weird.” Jazz crossed his servos in front of his chassis. “That a crime now?”

“Suspicious activity is a detainable offense.”

Jazz gave him a blank look. “Not everything is a conspiracy theory.”

“Conspiracy theories usually fail to garner so much evidence,” said Magnus.

Jazz cast Optimus an incensed look, hoping to see the mech ready to end this confrontation. Instead, the sight of Optimus with a servo on his chin, thoughtfully observing his desk, greeted him.

“Optimus?” Jazz hedged.

“I must second Ultra Magnus’s concerns,” Optimus said. When Jazz recoiled, he said, “Jazz, you are my friend, one of very few I consider to have left. If something is awry, you have my support. Let me help you rectify it.”

“Nothing is wrong,” Jazz said again.

“Jazz.” Optimus had that unmistakable, inescapable disappointed tone now. Even Jazz felt the slightest bit of guilt at hearing it.

He couldn’t risk the real truth – at least, not with Magnus watching him so closely – but perhaps a piece of the truth would be enough to get the two to take a step back.

“Look, I had a nightmare,” Jazz said, “about the Siege of Petrex.”

Optimus nodded, both an acknowledgement and a gesture for him to continue. Jazz kept his sigh internal.

“I woke up, I was out of it, I didn’t want Prowl to see me like that,” Jazz said. “I couldn’t have come up with a cover story right then to explain why a cultural investigator was having recharge fluxes about the siege of a Decepticon-controlled city. Prowl – he’s brilliant, but he asks a lot of questions. I needed time, somewhere he couldn’t find me and I could get my processor back in line.”

“And your solution to this,” Magnus drawled, “was to enter a Decepticon city and cause a factory to explode.”

Jazz waved his servos. “Can’t sit idle, Mags. ’S not in my coding.”

Jazz hoped that would be the end of it. Optimus was far too gentle to probe deeper into his story and risk making him relive the trauma. Unfortunately, Magnus had no such reservations.

“This bridges us to yet another matter of great concern,” Magnus said. “How long can we expect to keep Prowl in the dark regarding Jazz’s function.”

That statement – the idea of Prowl knowing what Jazz had done, what Jazz did and what Jazz would inevitably do – sent a cold wave crashing over his spark. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, Mags, I think you’re looking a little too deep into all of this.”

Magnus fixed him with a stern look. “Impossible,” he chided. “Maintaining the peace with Praxus is necessary if we hope to prevent the spread of the war. There is nothing we should leave unanalyzed and left to chance when we have ample opportunity to plan for it.”

Jazz cast a helpless look at Optimus, but the Prime was nodding slowly.

“Magnus has a point,” Optimus said.

Before he could continue, Jazz interjected, “I thought we agreed Prowl shouldn’t know. Praxus don’t exactly like vigilantes or spies.”

“It is highly unlikely that this secret will be maintained throughout the war,” Magnus said. “We need a contingency plan for if Prowl discovers the truth.”

“What’s going to keep him from leaving the moment he discovers he’s Conjunxed to a lawless killer?” Jazz snapped. “He doesn’t want to be here already. He didn’t plan on bonding any more than I did. So what are you going to do, Mags? Chain him in a cell ‘till he promises not to call Enigma? ‘Till he swears he won’t catch the next transport outta Iacon?”

“Your attitude is unappreciated,” was all Magnus said.

“Jazz and I have already discussed ways to root Prowl in Iacon,” Optimus said. “Ironhide has been tasked with connecting Prowl to mechs stationed here in hopes they might be enough to convince him to stay, or at least hesitate long enough to be convinced otherwise if he is given the option to return to Praxus.”

Magnus frowned deeply. “I admit there is no clear answer to this, but—”

“Great! Can I leave now?”

Magnus silenced him with a glare. “But I worry that if Prowl discovers he has been lied to and has bonded his spark to a mech that goes against everything Praxus stands for, he will feel betrayed. On the other servo, if we admit the truth now, Prowl is likely to return to Praxus without any qualms.”

Jazz hated how much the idea of Prowl leaving made his spark ache. He had yet to fully accept that he wanted Prowl to stay, that somehow Prowl had wormed his way into his spark and processor alike. That was what Jazz blamed when he said, “It’s better to wait and let Prowl find out on his own. It’ll buy us some time.”

“And what should we do with that time?” Magnus queried.

Jazz stayed silent for a moment longer, contemplating if he should just shrug and say it’s what he thought was best or use some of the information Skyfire told him against Prowl. He finally figured he might as well add Skyfire to the list of mechs he’s betrayed.

“Jazz?” Optimus broached.

“Praxus doesn’t do bond-breaking,” Jazz said. “No exceptions.” He looked at Optimus. “Not even in cases like you and Megatron. Even living away from your Conjunx is grounds for shunning. A mech with as powerful a position as Prowl… Enigma wouldn’t allow it. Once word spreads around Praxus that Prowl is conjunxed, Enigma won’t risk bringing him back and having him ostracized by the public. Pit, Prowl wouldn’t want to go back to that.”

Prowl would have nothing in Praxus. His position in the Enforcers was forfeited the moment he left the city and created ties to city-states beyond Praxus. His position as Enigma’s remaining heir was ruined the moment Prowl conjunxed an outsider. It may have kept the peace for Praxus, but Prowl was left effectively in exile. Enigma wouldn’t tolerate the backlash created by him abandoning a bond, even if it was to an outsider. A spark-bond was a spark-bond, either way.

Jazz felt ill imagining it. It never mattered what Prowl had walked in to in Iacon, Enigma wouldn’t have backed out. Prowl could have been in the servos of a mech like Impactor and Enigma would still find it easier to navigate his treaty with Iacon with a dead prince than face the uproar in his own community bringing Prowl back would cause. It was a cold outlook, but an effective one. Jazz could have never stomached it. He might have gallons and gallons of energon on his servos, but even he could have drawn the line at Conjunxing his last remaining sparkling to a stranger.

Magnus stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, “I will meet with Skyfire come morning next cycle and inquire further about Praxus’s view on breaking bonds.”

Not so much a view as a death sentence, Jazz thought. Skyfire, ever the gentle giant, had grown quiet and uneasy when discussing the ultimatum that was Conjunxing a Praxian. He had meant the explanation to ease Jazz’s mind, to assure him that he could still carry on with his partying and his affairs, as if Jazz would have had the spark to do that to anyone, even a stranger. Jazz was not expected to hold to Praxian standards. All they expected of an outsider was to maintain the bond.

“They consider a broken Conjunx bond to be a mark of Unicron,” Skyfire had murmured.

“I thought Praxus wasn’t real religious,” Jazz had said.

Skyfire had shrugged. “It’s not seen as religious so much as a legal precedent. The fall of Unicron resulted in chaos. They see accepting broken bonds as a slippery slope, allowing a bot to fall as Unicron did when he broke away from Primus. Maintaining a bond that would otherwise have been broken is seen the same as preventing further crimes from occurring.”

“Like taking a weapon from a murderer’s servos.”

“Exactly.”

No, Prowl would not leave Iacon. Not if they could keep him there long enough for word to spread in Praxus that he had Conjunxed. His tactical processor would undoubtedly conclude he was better off in the gilded cage of Iacon than the prisons of Praxus.

Jazz’s voice sounded empty to his own audials when he said, “Now can I leave?”

Optimus looked to Magnus. “I would like a quick glyph with Jazz. I will coordinate with you next cycle about what Skyfire has to say.”

Magnus seemed displeased at his dismissal, but he didn’t dare argue with the Prime. He dipped his helm and departed with slow, measured steps. Jazz didn’t remove his optics from the door until the sound of Magnus’s heavy footfalls faded from his sensitive audials.

“Jazz.” Optimus’s voice was quiet. “I meant what I said. Whatever happens, I will be there to aid you.”

And that was the problem. Jazz would never get what he deserved with Optimus backing him.

Jazz flashed him an easy smile. “I promise, mech, I’m fine. Dunno what brought the recharge flux on, but it’s not the first time. Having somebody else right there had me jumping out of my plating, that’s all.”

“I don’t just mean about the recharge fluxes,” Optimus said.

“Then I’m lost, because I’m all good.”

Optimus’s optics lowered to his desk. “I am aware that it was not your choice to bond. It was difficult for me to ask this of you, knowing you planned to never do such a thing. As such, I feel partly responsible for any issues that may arise.”

That was just what Optimus needed, _more_ things to guilt himself over. “Don’t plan on having too much to do, then. Prowler and me, we get along.”

Optimus cocked an optical ridge. “Because he organizes your music?”

“What can I say? He really knows the way to a mech’s spark.”

The Prime’s gaze softened. “I do hope you are happy. Perhaps it is not reasonable for me to wish such a thing this early on, but I do hope it becomes possible in the future. For what it counts, I think he could be good for you as well.”

Jazz had the same hope, no doubt for different reasons than Optimus. Optimus wanted something soft and warm for him to return to after his energon-stained missions. He wanted something real and honest and brutal. But Optimus didn’t need to know that. He would recharge better thinking Jazz had some quaint home life surrounded by classic music disks and a Conjunx never the wiser.

“Yeah,” Jazz said. “I think he could, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be a little late (not exactly sure when)


	16. The Blame

Prowl had, apparently, come into possession of a shadow early on in his time with the Autobots.

Ironhide was a large, towering bot, with bright red plating and a hulking build that made it very nearly impossible for him to vanish unnoticed into one’s peripheral vision. His pede-steps echoed down the metal halls. His every appearance was accompanied by bots greeting him by his designation, informal and buoyant. It was a stark contrast to Gunner, who had made no effort to mask his intentions when scrutinizing Prowl’s every move but went unapproached by all bots save Enigma.

Prowl had attempted to refrain from interaction with Ironhide. A part of him wanted nothing more than to sit alone and sulk in his – in Jazz’s – quarters and wait until the fallout properly reached him. Ironhide appearing at his – at Jazz’s – door later in the afternoon came as entirely unexpected.

“I am not scheduled for another shift today,” Prowl said.

“Not here for a shift change,” Ironhide told him. One large pede took a step forward, as though worried Prowl might shut the door. “You didn’t show up for mid-cycle rations.”

A familiar trick. _You failed to show up in an observable area_. “Jazz has adequate supplies here. I have had no need to leave.”

“For a bot who was so adamant a few cycles ago about recharging in the barracks, you’re pretty antisocial.”

Prowl resisted the urge to cross his arms beneath his chassis, maintaining a neutral posture under Ironhide’s gaze. “I did not see the point in wasting base-wide resources when there were adequate ones here.”

Ironhide gave a barking laugh. “I know damn well Jazz don’t have anything in here but energon so strong it’ll burn your wires out.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Prowl deadpanned.

Ironhide dismissed his comment. “We get our rations straight from the Iaconi factory,” he said. “You ain’t had good energon until you’ve had some of theirs. ’Course, you’d know that if you ever crawled out of your little hidey-hole here.”

“I’ve been here all of four cycles,” Prowl pointed out. “Proper integration takes approximately a vorn on average; two for cultures as vastly different as Iaconi and Praxian.”

Ironhide gave him a long look. “So’s that mean you don’t like the energon?”

Prowl returned the expression with an unflattering smile. “Remove the pede,” he said, “or the doorway will remove it for you.”

Ironhide raised his servos in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine. If you want to end up in Ratchet’s tender mercies because you tried living off that battery acid Jazz calls energon, that’s fine with me. I’ll be putting my shanix down on three cycles before you crack.”

Jazz most certainly had stores of energon collected in his apartment, but Ironhide’s observation on its quality was most apt. Prowl had drank strong energon before – Pit, he had practically lived off it when he was in the most intense of his studies – but Iaconi brew lacked the savor he had unknowingly come to expect. Jazz had no ration-grade energon in his collection – only his flavor and a frankly scandalous assortment of engex. Prowl had never ingested engex before – it wouldn’t do his image well when his sire had so adamantly decried it – and wouldn’t start now that he was in the depths of what five cycles ago had been an enemy compound.

Slowly, Prowl relented, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to become acquainted with the energon stores here.”

Ironhide, despite his gruff voice and war-build frame, had a beaming smile that could have given Jazz a run for his shanix. “Glad that tac training of yours finally got you to see reason.”

Prowl had vorns of experiencing sidestepping Gunner in tight spaces, so it was no matter at all to maneuver around Ironhide and into the hallway. The door fell shut behind him with a soft hiss, and Prowl couldn’t help the small deflation in his spark. Suddenly the battery acid didn’t seem that bad anymore.

“Come on.” Ironhide raised a servo like he was going to direct Prowl by his shoulder before dropping it back down to his side. It hovered momentarily about his hip in a mimicry of a natural movement. “Rec room’s this way, mech.”

“ _Prowl_.”

“Ah, you’ve just been around Mags too much.” Ironhide slowed his steps to match Prowl’s. “What’s it Jazz’s started calling you?”

Prowl fixed him with a look, and Ironhide continued, “Jazz isn’t one for regular designations. Magnus is Mags, Optimus is OP, Red Alert is Red. So, what’s he coined you?”

“ _Prowl_ ,” he repeated.

Ironhide waved him off. “Fine, fine, don’t tell me. But I give it two more cycles before the whole base is calling you whatever he’s started.”

The unprofessionalism these mechs had toward others in their ranks was startling. A violation of rank and designation in most of Praxus’s circles could result in anything between fines or ousting, depending on the mech dishonored. Prowl had no doubt that his designation was far less known than his title. These nicknames seemed like an unnecessary variable to toss into the mess Autobots called communication etiquette.

Prowl heard the rec room before he saw it. A faint tune, marred by the characteristic scratch of a music-device, issued from the open doorway. Echoes and murmurs of conversation too muffled and overlapping to decipher flowed into the hall.

The dining area in the Enforcer headquarters was a far cry from the one in the Autobot’s base of commands. Mechs of all ranks and functions mixed on one floor level. Tables of various sizes, but all of the same garish orange color, were set up haphazardly across the room. A quarter of the mechs present either leaned on the walls or against chairs or tables. Most sat properly. One mech was sprawled out atop a long table like it was a berth, with his servos cushioning his helm, while his companions prodded good-naturedly at his frame.

Ironhide waved for Prowl to stay back while he crossed the room to the series of energon dispensers against the far wall. Prowl could feel the curious gazes of mechs sticking to his frame. He hefted his wings into a neutral position and locked his servos behind his back. Ironhide seemed to take his sweet time at the dispensers, chatting with a red mini-bot while he waited. Other mechs approached him; none stayed for long. Ironhide appeared to be an integral member of the Autobots, well-known and well-liked, though Prowl had yet to decipher what his exact function was within their ranks.

A loud shout burst over the mumble of conversation. “Hey! Jazz-man!”

Prowl’s spark both soared and sank at the same time. His helm snapped to the direction of the voice without his conscious thought.

Jazz sauntered into the rec room, a cube already in his servo. He raised it high and called back a greeting. His effortless smile brightened his entire visage, his visor a brilliant, shining blue above it. He moved with ease through the small crowd of bots surrounding the energon dispensers, the mutter of conversation trailing behind him like an imperceptible cape. He still sported a few light scratches, probably nothing more than scuffs from driving on unkept roadways between city-states, and a single fresh weld below his chassis. He moved effortlessly despite the wear shown upon his frame.

Prowl couldn’t see Jazz’s optics behind his visor, but he could sense Jazz scanning the room with a long, keen look. He could feel the odd prickle beneath his plating when he suspected his gaze swept over him, hesitating a bit longer than it did with the rest of the room. Jazz never faltered; his frame was turned toward a bright orange front-liner with a booming voice. That easy smile never left his faceplates, as steady as though it had been painted in place.

The front-liner attempted to swing his arm around Jazz’s shoulders and haul him off, but Jazz easily sidestepped him and raised his free servo in placation. Prowl could barely hear his words, but he could see the movement of his lip-plates. “Sorry, mech,” Jazz said, stepping back. “Maybe another time, yeah?”

Prowl’s spark spun noticeably faster when Jazz began to move toward him. He remained rooted in place, partly because he didn’t trust himself to not trip over his own pedes should he move closer.

Upon closer inspection, Prowl saw that Jazz’s plating was clamped tightly to his frame, and Prowl wondered if his proto-form held more injuries.

“I admit,” Prowl began slowly, “I didn’t expect to see you again for a few cycles. At least, not alone.”

Jazz’s visor concealed a good half of his expression, but it wasn’t enough for Prowl to keep from unconsciously comparing what part he could see to that of a petro-rabbit corned by a turbo-fox. The silence that followed, though exceedingly brief, was choking. He added, “Should I take it by your lone presence that the negotiations with the Neutrals went awry?”

Ever-so-slightly, almost imperceptivity, Jazz’s plating loosened. “The Neutrals,” he breathed. “Yeah, them.” A servo rose to rub an audial horn. “Didn’t go that great. Not my best moment.”

“You can’t be expected to do everything,” Prowl reasoned. “There are some mechs who would rather remain uninvolved.” Praxus, for one, was full of them. Prowl had been one of them.

“Not everyone’s gonna get a choice,” Jazz said. His voice had dropped to a quieter tone.

Inevitably, that would be true, Prowl had to relent. The conflict had continued to escalate. His brief glimpse into the depth of the Autobots’ espionage and the Decepticons’ war efforts had been revealing, if disheartening. Praxus had the strength and numbers to stand against Decepticon forces; few other city-states could argue the same. Those places that could be used as tools in this conflict would be overtaken. Praxus, on the outskirts of Cybertron, surrounded by overgrown forests of crystals, had the added protection of isolation.

Prowl’s optics fell upon the scattered welds about Jazz’s frame, the smeared collections of dust and debris halfway tucked behind bits of transforming armor. He resisted the urge to touch, to catalogue the length and depth and severity of each minor wound and properly monitor its progression towards healing. Just because Jazz seemed overtly tactile didn’t mean he would appreciate the gesture, especially after their most recent meeting.

The reminder of that night sent a cold prickling sensation beneath his plating, and he became more keenly aware of the dozens of sets of optics glancing unapologetically their way. Jazz drew optics to himself because his very existence exuded an undeniable demand for attention. Alternatively, Prowl was something new and odd and foreign and conspicuously close to their current second-in-command. He could not risk allowing his precarious place to slip further down in the optics of the Autobots.

“Were the Neutrals fully opposed to joining?” Prowl queried.

Jazz gave him a smile, but it was dull; his visor remained bright, but not with amusement. “Playing for the Autobots now, Prowler?”

“Making myself useful,” Prowl said. “What the Decepticons have in strength, the Autobots must make up for in numbers.”

“Careful,” Jazz said lightly. “Keep talking like that and I might think you actually want us to win.”

“I have a vested interest in the safety of this compound,” Prowl replied.

“Is that all?”

“Of course. It would be a travesty if your berth was to go up in flames; its quality is far too good to risk letting go to waste.” An optical ridge raised. “Why? Is there something else here I should consider?”

A shrug and a comically lecherous grin. “Maybe something fast and tall and hot as the smelter.”

“Starscream is here?”

“Ha, _ha_.”

The tension that had crackled between their frames like a forcefield had dissipated. Jazz had subtly moved closer, enough so that Prowl’s sensor panels could pick up the strong hum of his spark beneath his chest-plates, spinning faster than a tornado in the Sea of Rust. Prowl realized that, between Jazz’s fast-spinning spark and worn armor, he must have only just returned to base, and now Prowl was keeping him on tired pedes.

“Would you like to return to your hab-suite?” Prowl asked. He shifted slightly, ensuring his wing didn’t block Jazz’s view of the exit.

Jazz’s expression returned to something neutral, and Prowl began to wonder if there was a second conversation carrying on beneath their spoken words that he had yet to catch on to. “Would you?” Jazz asked back.

“Of course.” Prowl flicked a doorwing. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you keep that berth all to yourself.”

“Well, funny coincidence, I like my berth better with you in it.”

“If you’re _done_.” Ironhide’s rasp coming from close to their sides was a surprise; Prowl’s twitching sensor panels had failed to pick up his presence, so focused in on analyzing Jazz’s every minute move. He held out a servo to Prowl, offering up a cube of energon that – thankfully – had a normal color to it. “This is yours.”

“You got him energon.” Jazz sounded— befuddled.

“You’re lucky it was me.” Ironhide pointed an accusatory digit at Jazz’s scoffed chest-plates, but his words lacked any fire. “I had to shoo off a horde of mechs at the dispensary ready to trip over their own pedes trying to throw themselves at the Praxian.”

“There have been no accidental falls since we entered the premises,” Prowl immediately corrected.

Jazz grinned, something bright and real, and Ironhide said, “You’re lucky you’re pretty, mech,” and turned away, shaking his helm.

Prowl didn’t have a moment with his thoughts to work out Ironhide’s angle thanks to Jazz’s servo touching lightly against the side of his shoulder. It was far from his sensor panels, beyond appropriate given their relationship, but it still sent zapping tendrils through his neural circuits. The room seemed ever-so-slightly smaller.

“You still wanna get out of here?” Jazz asked, in a voice that, surely, only Prowl’s audials could pick up.

“Most certainly.”

The walk from the rec room to the corridor containing Jazz’s hab-suite was quiet. Peaceful, even, despite the crackle of… something, unnerving between their frames.

“Prowl.” Jazz stopped, his frame still moving forward slightly, as though the decision had been sudden. He kept one pede out in front of him; Prowl easily recognized the stance of a mech ready to back away or even bolt if the situation arose. Prowl’s doorwing, close to Jazz’s side, could pick up the hum of his spark, once again sending violent vibrations through the air from the force at which it spun. “Look, about what I was saying back there—”

Prowl’s first thought was about the Neutrals, and his spark immediately sunk. Jazz was loud and excitable and tenacious, and the logical conclusion was that he wouldn’t give up on a group of bots after one cycle of trying. His departure had been sudden, forcing him into his excursion with few resources available in the moment. It made sense that he would leave again better equipped to deal with the Neutrals, presumably for a longer time, until he had exhausted all possibility of winning them over.

Before he could say anything – before he could risk this tumultuous peace between them by admitting displeasure with Jazz’s duties – Jazz spoke. “You don’t gotta stay with me if you don’t wanna.”

That sent a surge of terror through Prowl’s spark for an entirely different reason. His processor briefly froze, trying to comprehend how they had jumped from negotiations with the Neutrals to possible dissolution of the treaty, but Jazz had yet to finish speaking.

“My hab is yours now too. You can have the berth if you want, whenever you want. The couch is nice; wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t think so. I don’t mind it. Pit, I’ve recharged in worse places for longer than I’ve owned it. Whatever space you need, you can have it. Promise.”

“You—” It took Prowl a moment to wrap his processor around the current topic. “—wish to recharge on your couch?”

“Yeah.” Jazz’s ersatz grin was back in place, bright and soft and somehow wrong. Prowl couldn’t place what exactly about it seemed off. “Berth is yours, if you want it. Pit, if you wanna change the codes for the berth room, that’s cool.”

“Change the—?” A moment after beginning his echo, the realization struck Prowl. “You don’t plan to recharge alongside me.”

Jazz’s expression faded into one of unease. “Look, Prowl, I know you’re stuck here, and I can’t help with that, but after what happened the other night— I’m not gonna make you deal with my baggage every time you go to recharge. You don’t gotta be stuck with that too.”

Prowl’s processor was spinning nearly as fast as his spark, but the abject terror that had seized him had quieted to a panicky discomfort. “I don’t feel stuck,” was the best he could manage, while his fritzed processor tried to connect better glyphs together and failed.

Jazz looked at him with something akin to pity. “Prowl—”

“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out before Prowl could stop them, before he could think of a more tactful way to go about this conversation. He only knew he had to keep Jazz from saying more, from digging their hole deeper.

Jazz, at least, had the decency to look as taken aback as Prowl had felt. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Prowl repeated, “about startling you the other dark cycle. I apologize.”

“Apologize?” Jazz echoed, and Prowl had the sneaking suspicion that perhaps they were having two entirely separate conversations. He reviewed their lines and, no, he still suspected Jazz could only be referencing the events of their last night cycle together. Jazz’s next words were laced with static as he said, “ _I_ almost slit your throat!”

Prowl was going to have the worst processor ache after this vexing encounter. “After I startled you, for which I apologize. I was the instigator, and therefore the responsibility lies on me.”

“Instigator— Prowl!” Jazz’s voice in frustration was only a slight difference from his usual tone, still light and melodic, and hearing it come out in such a way was jarring. Prowl wondered if it had been considered uncouth to bring up the specifics, but it had been Jazz who broached the subject to begin with. “I could have killed you!”

“And I apologize for putting you in that position,” Prowl stated again. He couldn’t understand what they were meant to be discussing, or Jazz’s inexplicable irritation.

“No, Prowl, no—” Jazz’s servo rose, and his digits flexed, as though uncertain what gesture to make. Prowl was surprised when the warm surface of Jazz’s servo rested lightly against the plating of his forearm, as gentle as touching a fledgling crystal. “You didn’t startle me, and it don’t matter if you did. It shouldn’t’ve happened.” There was a pause, and in a quieter voice, Jazz added, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then I fail to see the point of this conversation,” Prowl admitted. “I did startle you, and you reacted, and both events were unforeseeable. I was not injured.”

“You could’ve been,” Jazz pointed out. Ultimately, Prowl had to concede that was true; vibro-blades were not forged for warning swipes. “Look, just because you’re trapped here doesn’t mean you gotta be trapped here with me. You can have your space. Won’t hurt my feelings.”

“I… prefer the arrangement we had prior to your departure,” Prowl said.

“Arrangement?”

“Our recharge habits,” Prowl clarified, as though two night-cycles together could constitute a habit.

Jazz’s visor hid the specific direction of his optics, but Prowl could feel the way they watched his faceplates closely. “You know if that changes, my offer stands. The berth is yours.”

“Should there be further disruptions, I would be more than happy to discuss resolving the matter with you,” Prowl said.

Jazz didn’t look exceptionally pleased with that statement, but Prowl wasn’t exactly pleased with the turn this conversation had taken. It was him who set off the events that night cycle, and thus him who should receive the punishment, not Jazz. Certainly not Jazz, whose life had been upturned and his most personal territory invaded by Prowl. But, at this point, Prowl would rather make peace than see justice done, and that made something deep inside of him twist with displeasure. It was wrong; it was self-serving. The fact he minded so little made him wonder what sort of influence Jazz was gaining over him.

Jazz seemed to come to the same conclusion – that this conversation had reached an impasse for now, with neither side willing to relent blame. Jazz’s spark was good, far better than Prowl’s, and rather than see this hopeless situation continue, he gave in with little internal argument. From the way Jazz’s armor loosened and his visor brightened, Prowl could almost believe Jazz considered it a win, or at the very least not a lost cause.

“So that’s a ‘no’ to the berth all to yourself?”

Prowl’s expression was unimpressed. “Your berth is beyond superfluous for one mechanism to recharge upon.”

Jazz’s grin, when real, was brilliant, and sent tendrils of warmth encircling Prowl’s spark chamber. His plating loosened minutely, the most extreme reaction he would permit in a public hallway. “Want to test it out for two then?”

Prowl’s optics flickered down to Jazz’s plating, and he couldn’t disguise the small frown that arose. “You’re covered in dust.” And fresh welds that might not have set yet, and small bits of debris in his wheel-wells, and Primus knew what else was hidden beneath Jazz’s plating.

“Well, I’m amenable to being covered in something else, if you—”

“No,” Prowl said. Jazz looked sufficiently jarred at his interruption, which Prowl supposed served him right for the spark-attack he’d given him in the corridor. “I will not have you lowering the quality of the berth. This” – Prowl, with his free servo, flicked a speck of dust from Jazz’s shoulder pauldron – “must go.”

“Bossy. I like it.”

Prowl’s smile was cool. “My berth, my rules.”

“Shower it is then.” There was a flicker at one edge of his visor that Prowl suspected was a mimicry of a wink. “There’s room for two in there too.”

Prowl’s doorwing twitched. “It would be more efficient if I were to help you clean off your frame.”

“ _Efficient_ wasn’t really what I was going for.”

Prowl cocked an optical ridge. “Jazz, certainly you aren’t suggesting going about tasks with a method possibly less effectual.”

“I was suggesting something; that wasn’t exactly it.”

Prowl held up his free servo, offering for Jazz to take it. “I do believe I have yet to become fully acquainted with your wash-racks. Perhaps it would make the most sense to set about completing two tasks in one evening.”

“I was thinking of a few more than two, but sure, let’s start there.” Jazz guided him a step closer.

Prowl sidestepped his frame without releasing Jazz’s loose hold on his servo. “Then it’s best we continue on our way. You have tasks to accomplish before you might return to your berth.”


End file.
